18 With a Bullet
by scottishvalkyrie
Summary: Four years ago, when she turned 14, Spike made a very important promise to Ed. Now that she's about to turn 18, Ed wants Spike to fulfill that promise, but it looks like Spike will break the pinky swear. PLEASE REVIEW; sorry for the major delay in updates
1. She's Sexy and 17

"Christ in a sidecar."

Spike wasn't listening to this latest epithet uttered by his partner. At the moment, Jet was hunkered down on his haunches, breathing hard, leaning against a wall on one side of a doorway. Spike was sitting on the on the side, waiting to see if their bounty had run out of bullets. Neither one was terribly inclined to simply poke their head through the door and ask. Spike had just checked his clip and he wasn't exactly flush with ammo either.

Jet looked at the ceiling. "Shit. I'm getting too old for this."

Spike grinned. "I can hear Ed's voice right now." He pitched his own voice high a silly, saying, "Language, language, Papa-Jet, something something babble babble."

Jet chuckled. "Do you think he's still in there?"

Spike shrugged, and then yelled into the room, "You still in there?" A single bullet shot rang out in response. "I think so."

"I wish we had that drone that Ed made. We'd be out of here by now."

"What is with you, old man? You're relying too much on technology, and not on the physical senses. Bounty hunting is about the hunt, and the hunt needs you to use your energy forces, your five senses, not nano-bugs and electronics."

"Says the man with only one real eye and a penchant for semi-automatic weapons." Spike didn't respond. He was frowning, listening to movement in the room beyond. There was a metallic _clank_, and some rustling. "He's moving."

Spike didn't have to be told twice. He leapt to his feet and barreled into the room, gun in front of him. He could see the bounty halfway into an air duct high on the wall, paddling with his feet. Spike popped a cap right into the guy's left buttock. The man screamed and slid out of the air duct, landing in a heap on the floor, clutching his backside, howling in agony.

Spike lit the cigarette he'd been keeping behind his ear. "Going somewhere?"

Jet sighed, and lit a cigarette of his own. "Do you always have to _shoot_ them?"

"Don't mess with a signature style, old man." The bounty continued to howl a high keening wail. Spike gave him a little kick in the uninjured buttock and said, "Hey, if I give you smoke, will you shut up?" The guy stopped yelling and accepted the proffered cigarette. _They always take the smoke,_ thought Spike, as he leaned down again to hold out a light for the bounty.

Jet waved in the general direction of outside. "I'll call this one in and then let Ed know we're on our way back. You'll keep this one company?" Spike nodded, and then sat on a crate, twirling his Jericho on his finger. Jet went outside to call the police and then to put a call out to Ed. At that moment, she had been typing relentlessly on her Tomato, working on some research for the very drones that Jet had been wishing they'd had. Beside her on her desk were also a couple of earpieces for Jet and Spike to wear, in order to stay in better contact inside buildings. That is, if Spike felt the need to wear his. She'd worked hard to make the thing nearly imperceptible when it was clipped in properly, and the microphone was practically invisible in his hair. She'd had a much harder time outfitting Papa and wiring the microphone into his sideburn.

Soon she'd be able to roll out her new project: tiny cameras that could be implanted on the wearer. They would replace those bulky goggles that Spike would wear and were, so far, better for use in low-light. Again, if Spike would actually deign to use them. _He's so stubborn,_ she thought. _It's like I'm attacking his masculinity by attempting to assist his bounty hunting through technology._

Ed scowled for a moment. Papa-Jet was making more and more noise lately about stopping bounty hunting. Part of her intention was to create technology that Papa would be able to use to assist Spike, should he want to continue. Or get a government contract. She already had the patents. The feds were just leery of using products developed by the Master Hacker. _Seriously, I wouldn't trust me either, _thought Ed with a little cackle.

Her comm. buzzed. It was Papa-Jet, with news of the bounty that they'd been after. The haul went well, according to Papa, and then he made her roll her eyes with yet another episode of trigger-happy Spike. "Papa-Jet, can't you do _anything_ with him?"

"I gave up a long time ago. We'll be seeing you soon."

"Stay out of trouble. I'll start dinner." Ed chuckled to herself and got up from her chair, stretching on her tip-toes. She said she'd start dinner, so she better get cracking. Spike was always ravenous after bringing down a bounty. She checked herself quickly in a mirror: looking good.

_Sexy and seventeen, you little rock-n-roll queen._

And even better: her eighteenth birthday wasn't too far away. She and Spike had some unfinished business.

As Ed tossed stir-fry makings into the old battered wok, her mind drifted back to a conversation that she and Spike had nearly four years ago. Wait, scratch that. Spike had done all the talking. And she remembered every word, every syllable, every nuance and inflection in his voice on an evening just before the stars came out.

_. . .Spike looked at me, and then placed his ice cream aside and turned to me. I couldn't look at him, so I played with my ice cream. "Ed, listen." He paused. He took a breath. "I don't want you to think that your feelings don't matter, or that you don't matter. Because you do matter, to us . . . to me."_

_And I thought my heart stopped beating._

"_And your feelings are very real, even if you are only fourteen. I know that. And I don't want you to think that I'm discounting your feelings because of your age. But . . . think about it from my point of view. I'm going to be twenty-eight in a few days. Right now, that age difference is huge. Do you understand?"_

_Of course I understood. He was saying, 'not right now', not 'never'._

_Spike continued. "Ed, in four years, you're going to be eighteen. In four years, if you want, we will revisit this conversation. I promise, we'll have a serious chat about it, if that's what you want. . ."_

And of course, that was what Ed wanted. Soon, so soon. She could barely wait.

Jet strode out of the police station towards Spike, who was just finishing up a cigarette. "The police have asked me to ask you to stop shooting people."

Spike snorted. "I can't have any fun anymore. Did we get the full bounty anyway?"

"Yes, but they're going to start charging a fee for the medical bills that always get incurred because of your happy trigger finger," replied Jet as he electronically transferred monies into Spike's account.

"Finger's gotta be happy somewhere."

"Up your own ass isn't doing it for you anymore?"

"You'd prefer it up yours?"

Jet looked at Spike for a long moment, a scowl on his face, and then he burst out laughing. "I can't respond to that."

"Losing your touch, old man. Give me my money. I have a date with a very tall drink."

"Ed's cooking."

"Save some for me." And Spike strolled off into the night. Jet watched him go. _Ed's going to be disappointed,_ he thought. _Goddamn him, anyway. Faye was bad enough. I should have nipped this in the bud ages ago._

************************

Faye, at that moment, was tapping her long fingernails on the cards places in front of her. She was tired. Scratch that, she was exhausted. Faye had been at this table, with the exception of a few short breaks, for nine hours. Her underwire from her bra has been poking her in the armpit for at least six of those nine hours, and she'd somehow gotten one of her pantyhose legs twisted during the last break, so now her left leg was losing circulation as the nylon cut into her upper thigh. She'd practically had nothing to eat the entire time besides bourbon, cola, and cigarettes, and her mouth felt like the bottom of an ashtray. However, it wasn't as if those nine hours had been for nothing. The whole long day was winding down, and her only opponent was a man who, if Faye had been pressed to describe him in one word, was nothing short of _ewwww_. He was short, fat, balding – but with a massive comb over – and he wore a tropical flowered shirt that looked like it hadn't been washed, and satin pants that looked as if they had, but on the heavy-duty cycle in an industrial laundry with a bag of rocks. He was scruffy. His nose hair was long. His ear hair was even longer. He wore an enormous crucifix that looked like he'd stolen it from an actual sacristy. And unfortunately, he had a slight lead over Faye at this moment.

Faye was ready to call it a night. She stumped out her cigarette and leaned further over her crossed arms, shoving her breasts, already straining against the embroidered silk of her spaghetti strap top, into better view. "Well, fellah? What's the call?" The guy didn't respond, but he looked at her, and then her breasts, and then he scratched the scruff on his face that he presumably called a beard, and a drift of dandruff fell to the felt of the table.

_Ewwww_.

Faye sat quietly, waiting for the guy to call or fold. Not that he was going to fold. Faye started hearing the clicks of a few more cameras, and she lifted herself a bit in her seat, and she tilted her head in a more attractive manner. _This is still much better than being shot at_, she thought.

"I raise." The crowd around them breathed a sigh of relief. Faye turned on her best beatific smile and set about to figuring out what she was going to do now. The truth was that her cards stank worse than a fish in a hubcap in high summer. She had an ace high, which might work, but this jerk across from her had a face that, if they weren't playing poker, might make her think of the politically incorrect phrase _mentally retarded_.

_I'm tired. I'm hungry. And I'm ready to call it a day._ Faye shifted a bit in her chair. Spike had once told her that in long tournaments, the players had been known to urinate in their chairs rather than leave their cards on the table for a few minutes. Once hearing that tidbit of information, not caring whether or not it was true, Faye had taken to wearing two pairs of underwear, pantyhose, and a waterproof girdle. No sense in taking any chances.

Faye took another long look at her opponent. There may be times to not take any chances, but she was feeling a bit punchy now. The light flashed off her opponent's crucifix. Faye took a breath, and decided to have a little chat with the higher power that may or may not exist. _God, are you there? It's me, Margaret._ Faye almost giggled_. Look, I don't ask for much. . . ah, you know that's not true. I ask for one big butt-load of stuff, and truth be told, you don't exactly come through like I think you should. Not that I should be bargaining, here. But look. Let me pass on to the next round of competition, and I'll make a promise that I may even be able to keep._ At that moment, her eye flashed on the hand not holding the cards. It was her right hand, the hand that had been holding the cigarettes for the past nine hours, and even in the bad lighting of the casino, her hand looked horrible. There were cracks in the skin near the first knuckles, and the skin was also the yellow of a week old bruise. She could even smell her hand from here. And her response again was _ewwww_, but now that was targeted at herself.

_Okay, God, here's the deal. Let me go on to the next round, and I'll give up smoking. _And after making this promise, she felt a weight lifted from her weary shoulders. Faye was surprised. It was as if her prayer had not only been heard, but granted. She looked at her poor cards again, and then grinned at her opponent. "All in, then."

A loud titter went through the crowd. She'd just woken them up with some gutsy playing. And her opponent went all in as well. Perhaps he was ready to get out of his horrible satin pants. Perhaps he was done with urinating in his chair. _That's gotta chafe_, thought Faye.

The dealer told Faye to set down her hand, and with a slight tremble, Faye spread out her cards, showing nothing better than an ace-high. Her opponent frowned, and then cursed. Miraculously for Faye, he had nothing better than a queen-high.

The cheer that went up was deafening. Faye quite forgot how to smile, she was so shocked. Then she squealed like a schoolgirl, grabbed the cards from the table, and threw them up in the air with triumph. Everything went a little crazy after that: Faye was taken from the table to an interview by a handsome young man in a beautiful suit, where Faye charmed her way through the interviewer's questions. The same young man escorted her to a table in the casino's best restaurant, where she was wined and dined by a few older executives who wanted to sponsor her, actually _sponsor_ her, in the next round of competition. All around her, the cameras kept clicking. Then the young man returned with a casino check for the chips that she'd just won. The executive closest to her offered her a cigar, the scent of which, even unburned, was expensive and exquisite. Faye looked at her check, which had lots of zeros and commas in the number, and then at the cigar, and she closed her eyes for a moment in reverence for her good fortune. Opening them again, she turned her dazzling smile to the executive with the proffered cigar and said, "No, thank you. I don't smoke anymore."

************************

Back on Mars, on the Bebop, Ed had just set the wok to simmer into honey-orange succulence when she heard Papa's voice ring out: "Hello, honey, I'm home!"

Ed squealed and flew to meet him. "Papa!" she cried, and smothered him in a hug.

Jet chuckled. "Geez, Ed, you're getting too tall. You're going to bowl me over one of these days."

Ed, still, holding on to Jet, looked around for the other Bebop resident. "Where's Spike?"

"He had other plans." Jet saw the girl's exuberance fade. "We could call Faye."

"She's on Venus. She made it through to the quarterfinals."

"Did she? We'll have to call her later. We got the bounty though. Where's your credit book?"

"You don't have to give me a cut."

"Yes, I do. You're as much a part of this team as anyone else on this ship. Maybe even more so, because you really do the hard work of finding these jerks for us. Besides, your college fund won't grow otherwise."

Ed sighed. "Papa, not the college thing _again_."

Jet scowled. "You're going. And don't give me that guff about how you could teach all the professors a thing or two. There are many classes and activites to experience . . ."

"And the experience will do me good and give me a well-rounded personality, blah, blah, blah, I _know_." Ed turned her back and moved back to the kitchen.

"This discussion is not over, kiddo," Jet called at her retreating form.

"Dinner's ready." Ed disappeared into the other room.

Jet shook his head. _Another thing to bicker with her about_. Sometimes, even the Master Hacker was as bratty as any typical teenager. He really did want her to go to school, not only to learn, but to get off this barnacle breeder and be with kids her own age. It wasn't right that her only social contacts were an old beyond his years man for a pseudo-father and one extremely bad influence whom he firmly believed that the girl had more than a healthy crush on. The girl had the smarts to have the most amazing future ahead of her, more than he could ever even imagine.

And if the past was any indicator of the future, Spike's future was very dim and dangerous. Definitely not a place for an up and coming genius girl like his.

Meanwhile, Spike was belly-up to the brass rail at one of his favorite smoky locals. They served the Irish whiskey the way he liked it: very large, and very straight. The taste was off tonight, though. He knew that Ed probably cooked a good spread just for him, and here he was instead. And actually, the missed dinner was disappointing to him as well. Jet had never mastered cooking beyond edible sustenance, but Ed was a magician in the kitchen. Furthermore, she could stretch a woolong until it screamed for mercy, and the result was that they were eating better meals than ever before. And it didn't hurt that Faye was no longer around on a regular basis.

_Faye_. The name still made him pause. She had recently broken her way in the professional poker circuit, and was the shooting star of this particular fifteen minutes, if the bookie's guilds were to be believed. Ed made sure that every single one of Faye's movements were catalogued, and so Spike had been barraged with images of Faye. And damned if she didn't look fantastic. And happy. Christ, she sounded like a million whenever Ed made him talk to her.

_That could have been yours_, Spike mused fleetingly before he crushed the wayward thought like a cigarette butt. _No way, no how_. The two of them had had it out a long time ago, and it was unanimously decided that a romance between the two of them would have been unhealthy and destructive to the both of them and to the universe in general. At least, that had been his justification at the time.

But now there was the problem of Ed.

Her eighteenth birthday was coming up, and Spike was dreading that she would request a chat with him. A chat that he'd promised her when she had just turned fourteen. He might be a man, but he still remembered certain things with definite and fearful clarity.

_. . .I looked at her. She was such a little girl, but certain words needed to be said. "Ed, listen." Christ, how could I put this that wouldn't break her heart? "I don't want you to think that your feelings don't matter, or that you don't matter. Because you do matter, to us . . . to me."_

_No answer._

"_And your feelings are very real, even if you are only fourteen. I know that. And I don't want you to think that I'm discounting your feelings because of your age. But . . . think about it from my point of view. I'm going to be twenty-eight in a few days. Right now, that age difference is huge. Do you understand?"_

_Still no answer. Damnit. I need a save, something to bail me out of his. Let's try procrastination, that usually works._

"_Ed, in four years, you're going to be eighteen. In four years, if you want, we will revisit this conversation. I promise, we'll have a serious chat about it, if that's what you want. . ."_

And damn, damn, damn, now he believed that she had been banking on that promise. That she'd be able to pour out her heart to him once she ceased being jailbait.

_Women_. He'd have to add this to his ever-growing file that he personally called _What the Hell were Women Up To?_ The creatures were beyond him. They fell in love at the drop of a hat, they made themselves miserable on purpose with sad books and movies, and they always asked the same damn kinds of questions: _Does this make me look fat_? Once Julia had asked him if he'd love her if she gained 150 pounds. He had looked at her and asked her if that was her life's goal or something, and then she'd punched him a good one in the arm.

Spike rubbed his arm absently. He lit a new cigarette. The barman refilled his glass. Spike's eyes drifted to the television at the end of the bar, which was tuned to the poker match on Venus. On the screen was Faye, smiling coyly at her opponent – a rather scruffy looking loser, with a flower-print shirt and really long nasal hair – and Faye was pushing her breasts into a better view upon her crossed arms. _Never misses a trick, that one_, thought Spike as he returned his focus to the drink in front of him.

_Clink, clink, another drink, plenty in the cellar when it's gone_, he mused as he gazed at the glass full of amber love.

Later, after dinner, Ed escaped back to her room before Papa could lecture her more about going to college. There was actually a very good university in the city where they tended to dock, but she didn't have a lot of desire to go. She had already been through the initial testing and she had basically tested as "completed" on every single subject with the exception of English, which she then completed over the course of a fortnight on a correspondence course. She currently held four patents, and had the equivalent of not only a high school education, but also an associate's degree. What did she need school for, anyway?

Ed sighed. Papa wanted her to get off the Bebop and to experience a life outside of bounty hunting and hacking, she knew. Find a better niche to be in, and not follow in his footsteps. _To make friends her own age, _he said. _To have a future, to have a life_.

_A life away from Spike, you mean,_ thought Ed. She was aware that Papa was aware of how she felt about Spike, had probably been aware since her fourteenth birthday. But the way she felt about Spike went back to way before then. She knew about him before she ever met him. That was one of the reasons she had pulled the Bebop down in the first place, to meet the one and only _Spike Spiegel_. Spike Spiegel of the Red Dragons. Spike Spiegel, the man who was dead but still walked as if he were alive. Spike Spiegel, the man who had been killed several times but would not die. And once she had met that Spike Spiegel, her life as she knew it would never be the same again.

Ed sat at her desk and pulled out a book filled with pictures and clippings. So many photographs. She'd gone kind of crazy with those disposable cameras on several occasions, so there would be a zillion pictures of one moment in time, and then a huge gap before the next set. There were some snaps of each of her birthdays, once they started celebrating them. She especially liked the one from her fourteenth birthday, which showed herself and Spike astride the motorcycle in their leather jackets and helmets. Another one was of her and Papa-Jet, and she was showing off the necklace with the pearl that he had given her.

She turned the page and smiled at the next set of photos, from when she turned fifteen. This one was a huge deal, and she always felt a little misty-eyed when she thought about it. Papa-Jet had taken her to the large building downtown, where a judge had asked her if she wished to be emancipated from her father. Having only seen her father once in the past ten years or so, she replied that she did. What she didn't expect was that her father was losing all of his parental rights due to non-communication. Papa-Jet then signed papers that placed him as her legal guardian, with full custody.

What a day that had been, thought Ed, as she dashed a tear off her cheek. There was the whole scene in the courthouse, and then there was a huge celebration that night. Faye had told her all about quinceaneras, and how she had gone to a friend's back on Earth, and how much fun they were. Faye had bought her a pretty new dress, a white one that was very grown-up looking. They had all gone out to this traditional Hispanic restaurant, where a sort-of quinceanera was held in her honor, complete with a dance with Papa-Jet, who put her first pair of high-heels on her feet to celebrate her new status as an almost-grown-up. And Spike had bowed to her, kissed her hand, and asked her for a dance.

If that hadn't been enough, her sixteenth birthday was a complete blow-out. Faye knew how to throw a party, and this one had all the trimmings. Faye put together a sort-of four person prom, complete with formal gowns for the two of them. Papa-Jet had taught Ed how to really ballroom dance, and they all went out to a beautiful restaurant where an orchestra played Big Band music next to a huge dance floor. She even had a spotlight dance with Papa-Jet, and she'd also danced with a couple of teenaged boys who were there with their parents. But the best dancing partner that night was Spike, who had twirled her across the floor so fast that she thought that the floor would slip away from underneath her. Ed glanced up to the shelf above her desk, where her corsage from that night, now dried out, sat in a place of honor.

Ed's seventeenth birthday was completely sedate by comparison. She had talked so much about how she loved riding on Spike's motorcycle that they had gotten together, and bought her a little Vespa, bright blue with orange flames. Spike had then taken her out on it to teach her how to drive it, and then they met up with Papa-Jet and Faye at a billiards parlor, and they all ate pizza and taught Ed how to play pool.

So different, each of her birthdays were. And all of them had been such a wonderful surprise for her. But if Ed had her way, she'd be doing the planning for this one. All she was waiting for was the question, _What do you want to do for your birthday, Ed?_

And she had the answer all ready.


	2. Marvelous Night for a Moondance

Full night had come across Mars by the time Spike made his way back to the BeBop. He had finally run out of cash woolongs as well as cigarettes, and he had no other place to go. He had also overdone the Irish whiskey just a bit, and he had reached that strange state of melancholy he found himself in more and more as he continued to age. The street back to the slip at the harbour was deserted. He hadn't seen or heard a soul on the way back, so he dropped his shoulders into his normal slouch and began to whistle softly as he dropped back into his familiar slow gait. For a moment, he whistled a few bars of _Danny Boy_ before he cut himself off into silence. He was already in a mood; there was no sense in making it worse.

Spike made his way silently through the loading bay and into the main section of the ship. The room was neat as a pin and no one was about. Spike then heard the loud rumble of Jet snoring his noisy inhale, so Spike stood still and counted the seconds of silence before the rattle of Jet's exhale. Jet's sleep apnea was growing worse. _And why am I aware of Jet's sleep apnea, for crying out loud? Someone'd think we were an old married couple or something. _

With a small sigh, Spike decided to see if he could rustle up any leftovers from dinner. Even cold, food might help lift his melancholia brought about by not being able to afford to get completely blotto. Digging through the lately well-stocked (as well as spotlessly clean) fridge, he found a covered dish that had his name on it. _Honey-orange chicken, excellent._ Spike nudged the door closed with his foot and carried his bowl to the front of the ship so he could look at the stars while he ate.

It was probably the slam of the fridge door that woke her up. Ed had been dreaming about Ein of all things, Ein barking and galloping through a field of softly waving wheat. She had a lot of dreams about Ein a few years ago, right after he had died and she had returned to the BeBop, but the dreams had become muzzier with passing time. Ed rubbed her eyes and looked at the projection of the clock on her ceiling, which said that it was nearly 2 am. _It's at least 45 minutes after last call, so Spike must be home,_ thought Ed. She swung her legs out of her rack and dropped lightly to the floor, managing to scratch her head and her belly while at the same time pulling her underwear out of the wedgie she was suffering. Not wanting to embarrass anyone, Ed pulled on a pair of shorts and another tank top so she "wouldn't pull a Faye". Papa-Jet had gotten on her case a couple of years ago to dress more appropriately, even on the ship, to a girl of her age and not as much of a "street walker with a wardrobe malfunction", as he so delicately put it. Secretly, Ed thought that Jet had gotten fed up with Spike's eyes following her whenever she walked through the room. And actually, it wouldn't do to show off too many of the goods, now, did it?

Ed peeked into the kitchen (after making a trip to the bathroom to make sure she didn't have a raging case of bed head) and there was no sign of Spike. And he wasn't stretched out on the lumpy sofa, and she was pretty sure he wasn't in his own room, so Ed quietly climbed the ladder to the upper front deck. There was enough moonlight and starlight to see the silhouette of Spike's head as he gazed through the large window. She poked her head through the bridge door and said, "Yo, Spiegel!"

Spike jumped, and his head whipped around to the side at the noise. "Ed?"

"Spike."

"Cripes, you move like a mouse. Did I wake you?"

"Sort of."

"Sorry." Spike turned his face back to the window. Ed came forward and sat in the other captain's chair beside him. Spike closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, _Nuts._

Ed noticed the empty bowl on the floor in front of him. "Did you like dinner?"

"Yup."

"It was better earlier when it was hot."

"It was still good."

Spike went silent again, staring out the window. Ed drew her legs up so her chin was resting on her knees. Both of them sat quietly for a while. Then Ed said, "I was dreaming before." Spike didn't respond, so Ed continued, "About Ein."

Spike was silent for another moment, and then he nodded and said, "Ah."

"It's nights like this that I seem to miss him the most. Like . . . when we were back on Earth, and we'd be looking at all the stars. The stars are different there on Earth." Ed curled her toes over the edge of the chair and rocked a bit. Then she began to softly chant, "Stars, stars, everywhere, not a drop to drink, twinkle twinkle and the cow jumped over the moon."

Surprised, Spike took a look over in her direction. He hadn't heard her talk like that in a while. After turning fourteen, Ed had begun a campaign of speaking with near-perfect grammar as if she'd been speaking it her entire life. For the briefest of moments, he'd been transported to when she was much younger, wearing black shorts and a ripped tee shirt, with wild hair and bare feet, and the lilt of her young voice speaking the oddest of _non sequiturs._ But then, at this very moment, she didn't look much different. The hair was still wild, she was clad in tee shirts and shorts, and her feet were just as bare as the day he'd met her. But the Ed of back then didn't have lithe curves, pedicured toenails (they were currently a bright blue to match her Vespa), and legs that went all the up to her neck.

Just at that moment, Ed decided to stretch out one of her impossibly long legs to the ceiling, waggling her toes with their perfectly painted nails. Her biggest toe even had a little white flower design with a sparkly stone at the center. Spike blinked, groaned inwardly, and cast his eyes in a different direction.

"Tell me."

Spike roused himself out his reverie. "What?" He stole a look back at Ed. Her leg was now tucked under her and she was looking at him expectantly.

"Tell me about Ein."

Spike frowned. "You already know. I've told you hundreds of times."

"But I don't dream about him every night. I hardly dream about him at all anymore. Tell me what happened when you found him, please." This last word was spoken with a slight plaintive whine that belied her age.

Spike sighed. "You _know_ what happened, Ed. Ein just . . . _died._ I wasn't even there with him. Jet told me. Ein went to sleep, and he didn't wake up. And then we went looking for you, and we buried him, all of us together, there on Earth." Spike rubbed his face and looked away, begging Ed in his thoughts to not ask any more questions about Ein or even on any other subject, because his mind-set was tenuous enough without having to think about _that day_ or _any other_ day with Ein during "that time", as Spike referred to it, and he certainly didn't want to think about "that time" with Ed here with her pedicured toes and impossibly long legs.

Spike remained silent, but Ed was noticing that his hand was twitching, as if he was desperate for a cigarette or any other kind of distraction that would ease his mind about Ein, even nearly five years after the fact, and Ed decided that she wasn't being fair. So, purposefully brightening her tone, she said, "Well, my birthday's coming up."

Spike was relieved for the change in subject. "That it is. Have you decided what you want to do that day?"

Ed leaned back in her chair, "Oh . . . I don't know. Something simple. Maybe a ride on the motorcycle, dinner at Grill, bowling, that sort of thing."

"All four of us on one motorcycle?"

Ed grinned and rolled her eyes. "No . . . just you and me, like we used to do. Go see Rufus and have some meatloaf. You know, like old times."

Spike gave a wan smile as he continued to gaze through the glass at the stars. "Ain't no times like old times."

Ed blinked. "No, no . . . I guess not." She looked at him for a moment longer, and then slapped her knees and stood up. "Well . . . goodnight."

"'Night." Spike continued his study of the stars, even as Ed looked at him for a moment longer, and then turned to go back down the ladder to the lower deck. He listened to her go, her footsteps getting fainter and fainter. Knowing that he was alone again, he sighed comfortably, and thought about a little Welsh Corgi who had saved his life on several occasions, and wondered just how much Ed understood.

And later, not for the first time, Spike wondered what kind of advice Ein would give about handling an almost-grown up Ed.

************************

Faye, at that moment, was about to completely run out of breath and possibly fall down on the floor. She had just had the most exciting, the most frightening, and possibly the most bewildering night of her life. She had come out from a long stretch behind in a mid-range poker tournament that had somehow snowballed into the "poker tourney of the century." She had gone from relative obscurity in that same poker world to the top of the heights. She was no longer relegated to sub-standard "Poker Alice" status. She was Faye Valentine, up-and-coming-about-to-be-champion, with commercial underwriting and the most lucrative (as well as the most honest) financial deal of her life.

Faye put a palm on her chest. She felt woozy and the ugly carpet in the corridor (_why, why was hotel carpet always so ugly? _Faye thought momentarily) was appearing to shift up the walls when she felt a steady and strong arm around her. "Steady, Miss Valentine. Are you all right?"

Faye's head lolled around on her neck until she found herself looking into the warm brown eyes of the same handsome swain who had escorted her from the poker room earlier in the evening. His good looks were neither exactly _pretty_ nor exactly _rugged_ but somehow were a pleasing combination of both. Faye blinked a few times and then smiled. "I think so . . . but this is the second time you've come to my rescue this evening, and I don't even know your name."

"Justin Winfield of the El Dorado Casino and Resort at your service, miss. I've been keeping my eye on you for the past eighteen hours or so, and I know for a fact you haven't eaten anything today but beer nuts and bourbon. Seriously, don't you poker players eat?"

Faye chuckled. "Not when we don't know if there's good cards in the flop."

Justin laughed, and nice earnest laugh that Faye believed would make her fall in love with him if she were so inclined to fall in love based on laughter. _And after a night like tonight, anything seems to be possible!_ Justin steadied Faye on her feet, and said, "Come with me. The grill here serves a delectable cheeseburger at this time of night. I think it's the best medicine anyone can come up with at 3 am." Faye agreed, and soon they were sitting in the 24-hour grill in the back of the casino, near all the slot machines. She had no idea of how hungry she was until her cheeseburger arrived: enormous, positively dripping with gooey cheese, and accompanied by perfectly fried, thick-cut seasoned fries. Faye tucked in immediately and didn't speak again for about 15 minutes, and when she looked up, Justin was grinning at her. Faye turned a delightful shade of pink, put down the mostly eaten burger, and fussily wiped her hands.

"I'm not laughing at you, Faye; I've just never seen a lady dive into one the burgers here like that."

Faye kept wiping her hands on the paper napkin. "Normally I have better manners."

Justin's eyes twinkled. "Are you sure?" Faye looked at him in surprise. "Faye Valentine, formerly known as Poker Alice, a bounty refugee and two-bit _croupier_?" Justin reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a small folded object. He unrolled it, and then flipped it open, and began typing on the small keypad. "Of course, part of my job here is to do thorough background checks on anyone that moves this far into the tournament."

Faye was still staring at the little electronic doohickey in front of Justin. "Is that a _notebook computer_?"

Justin looked at her. "It sure is."

"Wow. I mean, that thing is _amazing_. E- . . . I mean, this _person_ I know, she'd be just flipping out over that notebook."

"I'm assuming you're talking about Radical Edward, the Master Hacker? You've had an acquaintance with her for about . . . five years? That would make her about eighteen."

Faye's eyes grew wide. In a small voice, she said, "Seventeen."

"Seventeen. Sorry." Justin continued to type on the notebook. "In the past five years, you've also been in the company of a former police officer who goes by the name 'Jet Black' aged 41, and a former _yazuka_ by the name of Spike Spiegel."

Faye bristled. "He wasn't just a _yazuka._"

Justin peered at Faye. "No?"

"He was the _heir_ to the Red Dragon Syndicate." Faye threw down her napkin and stood up.

Justin looked up at her. "Sit down, Faye."

"The _hell_ I will, Winfield!" hissed Faye. "Just what kind of background check is this?"

"The kind of background check that also tells me that you once carried a substantial amount of debt after you were revived from cryo-sub-sleep." At this, Faye had decided that she had had enough, and she tossed her little purse over her arm and began to stalk away. Without missing a beat, Winfield stood, swept his tiny computer back into his pocket, and fell into step next to Faye. "However, my records do show that you were able to remain out of police custody by managing to repay the majority of debt as well as utilizing programs that would allow you to legally remove part of that debt. You have been a bounty hunter for a majority of the years post-recovery, yet you have managed to stay on the right side of the law, for the most part, barring being a public disturbance and committing property damage while in pursuit of your bounties." Faye snorted. "Did I miss anything?"

"Yeah. You missed the fact that I played Maria in my high-school production of The Sound of Music." By this time, Faye and Winfield had reached the entrance door to the casino, and Faye slammed on the crash bar, but the door wouldn't open. She tried again, but the door stayed shut. Faye glared at Winfield, who held up a small button device.

"Automatic door locker." Winfield grinned. "And anyway, your high-school play wouldn't be in my background check, since it only goes from when the gates became operational. Did you really play Maria? I'm rather fond of that musical. Remind me to sing _Edelweiss _for you sometime."

Faye was seething. "Let. Me. Out."

Winfield tilted his head in amusement. "Faye. The whole reason for doing these background checks is to make sure that you are not going to be a financial risk for the casino. You never would have gotten this far if you were still playing the same tricks you did as 'Poker Alice'. And corporate backing? Forget it."

"Wh . . . I don't understand."

"Who is your corporate backer? Trigger Securities?" Faye nodded. "I suggested you to them. I told them that your experience as a cowboy . . . sorry, cow_girl . . ._ would make you a great spokesperson for them. You have to do some PR work for them, right? Well, Trigger has made a name for itself as being the only inter-planetary shipping industrial who can overpower pirates. And your bounty hunter experience gave you the edge to get the gig."

"You mean this whole background check thing . . ."

". . . Was nothing more than to protect the assets of El Dorado and to pair you in the best way possible to the best corporate match possible. Besides, we don't like to put up quarterfinalists in our better suites if we think they're going to steal the towels." Faye looked at Justin with surprise. "What, did you think you were going back to the Silver Slipper Motel? When you now have an image to uphold and a backer to be at the beck and call of? I don't think so."

"But . . . my . . ."

"Your bags and personal effects are already in your suite here. This is your key. It's number 2006."

Faye took the proffered cardkey. "Okay, but that, the fact that you packed up all my stuff, that's creepy." Then she burst out laughing.

Justin joined in the laughter. "Look, I'll just show you the way towards your suite. The hotel part of this place can be like a rat maze." He offered his arm to Faye, who took it, and they both began to walk off towards a bank of elevators. "Listen, I'd love to hear about this Edward person. She seems like quite a technological wizard."

"You don't know the half of it." And they both entered the waiting elevator.

************************

The next morning, Jet ventured out of his room to find Spike stretched out on the sofa, where he'd moved to at some point during the long night. He had a magazine over his face. Jet hadn't heard him come in, but Spike obviously knew where to find remnants of the dinner Ed made yesterday, judging from the empty bowl on the table. Jet leaned over the back of the sofa and started whispering to Spike.

"Spike. Spiiiiiike."

Spike shifted a bit. "Mm?"

"This is your conscience."

"Mm."

"I have a message from your liver. Stop drinking so much."

"Fckov."

Spike began to snore lightly. Jet looked down at the younger man for a moment, then drew a mighty breath and shouted, "WAKE UP!"

Spike leapt upright. The magazine flew. Spike sat, breathing hard, clutching his chest. "Cripes, Jet. Was that necessary?" Spike rolled his head around on his neck. "Between you and your pseudo-daughter, it's amazing I haven't dropped dead of a heart attack."

"What did she do?"

Spike gave a mighty stretch. "Snuck up on me in the upper deck while I eating dinner."

"Serves you right. Dinner was damn fine last night."

"Had a more pressing engagement."

Jet raised an eyebrow. "The bottom of a liquor bottle or an extremely well-cooked meal. Hmm. I'd have to mull that choice over too."

Spike lit a cigarette. "Is there anything going on today?"

"I have to pick up something for Ed's birthday. And there's a new bounty, if you want to chase after it."

"Why not? What do we have to lose?"

"Speak for yourself, Spiegel. I feel like a man of plenty these days." Jet strode away, whistling. Spike watched him go, not sure if the small pang in his gut was a hangover, or a touch of jealousy.


	3. Took Eighteen Years to Get This Far

Ed woke early on the day of her eighteenth birthday, and she went out to the kitchen. She thought it might be empty, due to the early hour, but Papa was sitting there as always with his morning coffee and a newspaper. He kept having to adjust how far away the paper was from his eyes, squinting.

"I think you need glasses, Papa."

Jet rolled his eyes. "And here I was, trying to hang on to the last bastion of my youth. Thanks a lot, kid." He held out an arm to her. "C'mere." Ed stepped into his hug. He kissed her on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, m'girl."

"Thank you."

"Did you have something special planned for the day?"

Ed grinned. "Can we fish?"

"Of course we can. I was hoping you'd ask. Oh, and you've already got a delivery. It's over by the sofa." Jet snapped his paper back into place and began to squint at it again.

Ed went over to the sofa area and saw not one, but three large bouquets! She squealed as she dashed over to the little table, sliding on her knees. First, there was a very puffy bouquet of luscious pink roses. Ed counted them, yes, there were _eighteen_, and a card attached. These were from Faye, who said to check her e-mail. Ed went straight to the ship's computer and logged in, searching for the e-mail from Faye. It stated that a ticket had been purchased for her to travel to Venus in three days' time! Faye was going to show her around and take her shopping! Ed dashed off a quick _thank-you, thank-you, Faye-Faye, thank-you, _and laughed.

The next bouquet was full of huge fragrant stargazer lilies. A small box stood before the vase. The card said that these were from Papa-Jet, and the message said to open the box carefully. Frowning, Ed carefully removed the wrapping paper and lifted the lid on the box. She was expecting another pearl; Papa usually gave her another one to put on her chain with each birthday. What she didn't expect were eighteen pearls, and a matching pair of earrings. Tears sprung to her eyes.

"Do you like your present?" Papa-Jet was leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. Ed nodded because she too choked up to speak. She flew into his arms. Chuckling, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. "I have to keep giving you pearls, because, frankly, I have no clue what kind of electronic gadgetry to give you. And I thought you deserved something more than one measly pearl."

"I love you, Papa." Ed's teary voice was muffled against his chest.

A tear came to Jet's eye as well. "I love you too, Edward." They stayed there a moment, until Jet asked, "What do you think about that gift from Faye?"

Ed stepped back and wiped her eyes. "That is so amazing. I can hardly wait."

"What did Spike give you?"

"I haven't looked yet." Ed knelt back at the table. Spike's bouquet was full of sunflowers and irises and was just a riot of gold and purple. _I'll have to remember to wear purple today_, thought Ed, as she opened the card. Inside were a simple birthday sentiment, and a hand-written note: _The day is yours . . . looking forward to our Traditional Ed's Birthday Date._

Ed's heart skipped a beat. Jet asked, "What does he say?"

"That the two of us are going out today."

Jet nodded. "That sounds nice. How about some breakfast? I thought I'd try my hand at crepes this morning, but you'll have to help."

"Your crepes end up the consistency of a three-day-old tortilla."

"That's why you need to help me." Laughing, they both went to the kitchen to start breakfast.

Spike rose just in time for the first round of crepes. Typical, thought Ed. Still, she gave him a hug and thanked him for the beautiful flowers. Spike gave her a brief squeeze and then asked her what kind of outing she had planned.

"Well, I was just thinking, maybe, dinner at Grill and bowling. We haven't gone bowling for a long time," replied Ed.

"Only because you keep beating me," said Spike. _Just as I thought_ mused Spike. _Grill and bowling. Just like the first "date."_

Jet and Ed spent a good portion of the day on the deck of the ship, fishing. Why she enjoyed fishing so much, Ed didn't know, but it just seemed like a great way to while away the day. And spend good time with Papa. They had managed to get a couple of good-sized mackerel, which Jet cooked on an open grill for their lunch. As a birthday treat, Ed was even allowed a beer with the grilled fish, followed by a long lecture from Jet about the ills of alcohol. And smoking. And no-good men. And even though she was legally an adult, she still needed to understand where he stood about her indulging in such activities. Ed almost laughed, because it seemed so surreal to be hearing these words from a man who made his living off bounty hunting and remaining barely on the right side of the law.

Jet continued, "Don't be like Spike, that's all I'm asking."

"You keep telling me that Spike is a good man," countered Ed.

"He is most of the time." replied Jet. "I'm just concerned about the strength of his demons."

"But you're still letting me go out with him today."

"Around you he's on his best behavior."

"So you're saying I could be a good influence on Spike."

Jet chuckled. "Hope springs eternal." But then he sobered and looked directly into her eyes. "Please. Be careful around Spike. I think . . . I think he's got more baggage than any of us realize. Just keep that in mind."

Ed's initial reaction was to laugh. But when she returned Jet's gaze, she realized just how serious he was. She nodded and replied. "I will, Papa. I promise."

Later, Ed spent a good portion of the afternoon agonizing about what to wear. She was thinking purple, but the top that she really liked was too little-girly, and while she had another purple top, a cute little spaghetti-strap number that had a deep scoop neck, Papa would surely veto it as being "too old".

_Decisions, decisions_, she thought to herself, and then she found a shrug that Faye had given her just for a situation like this. It was black cashmere, and it wrapped around the front and gave just enough modesty to a questionable outfit. And it had beading and sparkles on the edging, just like the purple top.

_Perfect_. And of course, the jeans that she had recently bought and her comfortable black cowboy boots. _Looking good, looking good. Take this, Spiegel_. She giggled, and then she had a brief wave of nervousness. She knew what she was going to say to him in essence. But she also worried about what he would say to her. And since Spike was essentially a closed book, his answer could be anything.

_Don't worry about that,_ a voice chimed in her head. _What's important is that you tell him how you feel. You can't do anything about how he responds._

_We'll see about that,_ thought the snarky side of Ed, and she said, "Showtime."

Spike, meanwhile, was having his own misgivings. He'd been wracking his brain recently, trying to remember if he had ever acted out of turn around Ed, if he'd ever led her on, if he'd ever given the slightest indication of any interest in her other than as the resident brat.

And the answer he'd come with was _no_, but then Faye had more or less behaved the same way. And he'd thought, at the time, that he'd behaved the same way about her. Faye was simply another dispensable facet in his life, one that he could take or leave.

But women didn't work that way. They worked on their own plane of bizarre logic where the simplest words and actions had too many different meanings.

_Whatever,_ he thought, as he sat on the sofa, waiting for Ed to finish getting ready. _Ed's eighteen, she'll have her say, I'll tell her how it's going to be, and that will be the end of that._

And then Spike felt a distinct shiver, one that made him feel like someone was laughing at him, somewhere.

Ed finally emerged from her room and found Papa and Spike waiting for her on the sofa. She put on one of her blinding smiles and said, "Okay, I'm ready."

Spike took a momentary look at her, and then drawled, "Okay, then. Let's mosey." He got up and started walking out toward the hangar. Ed's eyebrows twitched in confusion. Usually he did say something about her appearance, or at least some remark about her being some kind of "clothes horse", and he and Papa would share a joke about how when they first met her they couldn't even get her to wear socks.

And it took her a moment, but then Ed realized something else: Spike always took care to clean himself up whenever he took her out. He knew how much these little outings meant to her, and he treated every one with a deference usually reserved for some important dignitary. But today, he was wearing his usual blue suit with the skinny necktie, his unofficial "hunting garb". Even his usual bent cigarette hung loosely from his lip. Ed blinked, but then she gave Papa a hug and a kiss. She hurried to catch up with Spike as he ambled out the door, and she heard Papa yell, "Be careful! Have fun!"

"We will!" Ed replied. Spike handed Ed her helmet and her jacket, but then left her to struggle with the strap. By the time she finally got the thing buckled properly, he had already fired up the bike. Ed climbed on behind him, and took a hold of his waist. Spike took a glance over his shoulder, and shouted, "Ready? Hang on!" He dropped the bike into gear and they rolled down the ramp to the street.

Normally, Spike would take long, scenic routes to their destinations, because he knew how much Ed just enjoyed riding. But tonight, he took the most direct route to Grill, an old haunt located in one of the most bohemian parts of town. Ed was disappointed. She had been hoping for a nice drive along the waterfront, but then, they had gotten a later start than they normally did.

They both stripped off their helmets and walked into the old restaurant. The usual men were sitting at the counter, drinking their endless cups of coffee, served by an older waitress with brassy orange hair. Spike and Ed went to their usual booth, and they were suddenly greeted by Spike's old friend, Rufus, who started calling Spike every name in the book for staying away so long.

Spike smiled at the huge man. "When you treat me like this, why would I want to come back any sooner?"

"And you brought the young lady! Miss Ed, what are you doing still hanging around this loser?"

Ed gave a little smile. "I honestly don't know."

Rufus gave a deep belly laugh and then asked if they still wanted to have their meat loaf, despite Spike's constant complaining about it. Spike and Ed both replied in the affirmative, and Rufus slapped Spike on the back so hard he winced, and then Rufus returned to the kitchen. A waitress brought their drinks. And then Spike did something he never did when he was alone with Ed: he snagged an ashtray and lit up a cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke at the window.

Ed was confused. _Why was Spike acting so distant?_ He'd shown more civility to Rufus than he had to her. Still, she tried her best to stay upbeat.

"Didn't you grow up around here, Spike?"

"Yup."

"Has it changed much?"

"Some." Spike continued to look absently out the window.

"I like this part of town. It has . . . personality."

"Mmm."

"I mean, I'm sure it was different when you were younger. Maybe not as many tattoo shops. Was that music store there when you were my age?"

"Hm-mm. Got my first clarinet there."

"I didn't know that! You played clarinet?"

"When I was younger."

"Wow! I never knew that! That's really cool, Spike. I never would have expected it from you." Spike didn't respond. "I mean, I guess there's a lot I don't know about you, but . . . You know, this is the kind of place I'd like to live. Kind of bohemian, but just enough . . . normalcy. But maybe with more trees and stuff. You know?" There was still no response from Spike, no indication that he was even paying attention to her, even though she was simply babbling to fill the silence. Finally, Ed pursed her lips and said, "You know, I'm thinking of cutting off my little toes."

Spike was still gazing out the window. "Are you now?"

"Yeah. I want to see if they grow back."

"That sounds nice." Then Spike blinked and said, "Wait. What?"

Ed bit her lip. "Nothing. It wasn't important."

Thankfully, their food arrived so Ed wouldn't have to try to drag Spike into speaking for a while.

Once Ed tucked into her dinner, Spike took a moment to study her. She was wearing a top and sweater that was just low-cut enough in front to be tempting, and while she would never be as voluptuous as Faye, even Spike had to admit that Ed had a cute little figure. He was having a hard time comparing this lovely young woman to the awkward and bizarre teenager he had first met about five years ago. And most of the time, that was how he pictured her in his mind's eye.

_Who knew?_ He mused as he took a long drag on his cigarette, which he absentmindedly exhaled right in her direction. At the time, Ed was taking a drink, and the smoke went right up her nose, choking her for a moment. Tears squeezed out of her eyes as she continued to cough, trying to get control. Wiping her eyes, she said, "Spike? Can you not blow smoke right on me, please?"

"Sorry." His next exhale went out into the general area of the restaurant.

"You don't smoke around me usually anyway. Is something wrong?" Spike didn't answer. "Did you not want to go out tonight? We don't have to."

"Nonsense. It's your birthday. I always take you out on your birthday."

Ed's mouth twitched. "Well, then, can you at least pretend it's not some kind of chore?"

Spike looked at her. She was looking right back at him, her eyebrows knitted together. He stumped out his cigarette. "You're right, Ed. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise." And then he started eating.

_Another promise_, thought Ed. She felt a little hitch in her chest. This was not going well. Ed bit her lip, and went back to eating her dinner in silence.

Spike and Ed were back on the motorcycle, heading to the old bowling alley. Rufus had gifted Ed with yet another huge brownie sundae, complete with "Happy Birthday" being sung out of tune by all the denizens of Grill, but Spike didn't share it with her. He remained taciturn and continually stirred his coffee, long gone cold, in lieu of smoking a cigarette. Ed wasn't able to finish the huge brownie on her own. Her throat felt tight. _Why is he acting this way? _She had been moments away from just calling off the whole evening on account of her date acting like a total jackass, but then she thought about what Faye would do. She'd hold her head high and have a good time on his dime anyway. _Well, then. So there._

So, with a smirk on her face and a shimmy in her walk, Ed walked straight up to Carl behind the counter and asked for an alley and a pair of shoes. It didn't escape her notice that Spike dropped about a step behind her. _Better to watch my ass,_ Ed thought. _They are all the same. You were right, Faye._

Spike had, in fact, dropped back to better enjoy the view. Spike wondered briefly if that whole walking wiggle was genetic or something that was taught to women in restrooms. _God knows they had to do something in there. Probably were discovering the cure for baldness in their secret restroom labs, which was why they got all bent out of shape when a drunken man would wander in on accident. _He began to chuckle.

Ed turned with a puzzled look on her face. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," replied Spike, getting back in control. "Just a random thought. So which lane is ours?"

The two went to their lane and began throwing warm-ups. Ed had just bowled a nice little hook when she felt eyes on her. Spike wasn't looking at her at that moment, but a group of boys that looked to be her age were. She guessed that they were from the university, as a couple of them were wearing shirts and ball caps with the school's logo. _Hmm_, Ed thought, with a little smile_. I hope Spike gets a load of this._

Spike _had_, in fact, noticed. And damned if he didn't particularly care for it. They were just frat boys, but he really didn't like the way they were looking at her. But what he really didn't like was the way she looked back at them. And how her bowling approach got just a little more . . . slinky.

_When in the hell did she learn how to move like that?_ Spike pondered. _Is she channeling Faye or something? She's just a little kid, for chrissakes. And furthermore, what am I even doing noticing the way she moves?_

Spike got up to bowl. He threw a nine; leaving the ten-pin and making him wish he was playing nine-pin no-tap. The ten-pin was a hard spare for right-handers. He sighed, and was moving to the ball return when he saw Ed engaged in a conversation with one of the boys. She was smiling, that radiant smile that always made Spike want to smile back. Spike prickled, but said nothing, and threw his second ball, completely blowing it. He shook his head, and then made his way casually to where Ed and the Joe Campus were standing.

"Hello." Spike pulled out a smoke and lit it. The kid just looked back at him.

Ed said, "This is Spike. He's . . . a friend of my father's. Spike, this is Allen. He's a student at the university." Both men squared each other up briefly, and then nodded. Ed continued, "We're celebrating my birthday today."

The Allen kid broke into a smile. "Well, happy birthday. It was nice to meet you. Listen, we have to go . . . but, if you'd maybe . . . like to get together sometime and bowl, here's my card." He handed over what looked a business card. "Is your name really Edward?"

Ed blushed and grinned. "Yeah, I know it's weird."

Allen grinned right back. "Yeah, but I like it. Catch you later, Ed." And the four young men left the bowling alley. Ed watched them go. At the last moment, Allen turned around and waved goodbye. She waved back, and then gazed at the card he'd given her.

"What kind of business card is that?" inquired Spike.

"It's not. It's more like a calling card. It just has his name and phone number . . . and Kappa Alpha in Greek letters."

Spike snorted. "Frat boy. Figures."

"I thought he was nice."

Spike shrugged, and sat at the scoring table. "You're up."

"Whad'ja do?"

"Blew it."

"Your game is off tonight, Spiegel. Not finding your mark." Ed gave a little laugh and went up to bowl.

_That's not the half of it, sister,_ thought Spike. _What the hell was going on, anyway? Did I just get pissed off about the kid chatting with some other snot-nose kid?_

They bowled only two games, mostly because Ed had so thoroughly spanked Spike both games that there was little chance of him redeeming himself. They did have a good laugh at that, and Spike remarked _how dare the grasshopper surpass her teacher_ and gave her a smile. The first one he had given her the whole evening. _Finally,_ thought Ed._ I was worried that the bug in his ass had taken up residence_. She chuckled. _How Faye-faye of me. She is a bad influence._

Spike was putting on his helmet when he said, "Where next?"

Ed paused in donning her jacket, and replied, "Is that ice cream parlor still around?"

Spike nodded. "I think so. Hop on." She did, and then they sped off to the other end of the waterfront. By now it was full dark, and there were quite a few people milling about the area.

Spike coasted the bike into a parking space. As he dismounted, he noticed his stomach was tying up in knots. _Won't be long now_, he thought, as he stowed their helmets and jackets.

Ed's stomach wasn't faring too well either. Spike had been running mostly cold all night, and she was utterly anxious about even whether to broach the subject that they left open four years ago. Then the Faye-faye-like voice whispered in her ear again. _Why do you think he's been acting like a creep for most of the night? He's trying to throw you off and avoid the situation._ Ed blinked. The thought hadn't occurred to her. _Thanks, Faye-faye,_ she thought, as they entered the ice cream shop. _We'll just see about that._

They both got the same flavor this time: lemon custard. They went back outside and found, lo and behold, the same damn park bench from four years ago. _Fantastic_, thought Spike. _Well, let's get this over with._

Ed was quiet for a long time, eating her ice cream. She looked out over the harbor at the tall-sailed boats, strung with fairy lights. "Spike?"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever been sailing?"

Spike nearly choked. That was not what he was expecting at all. "No, no . . . I can't say have."

"Me neither. I did some crazy modified wind-surfing while I lived on Earth, but that was in the desert. It seems like it would be nice on be on a small boat in the water. Don't you think?"

"Jet would like that too," replied Spike. "Then you and he could fish to your heart's content."

Ed glanced at Spike. "You don't like fishing, much, do you?"

"Not particularly."

"What do you like?"

Spike shrugged. "This and that."

"Ah. Bowling, drinking, smoking, going after people with a gun."

Spike chuckled. "You forgot playing pool."

"Oh, of course. How silly of me." Ed paused for a moment. "Do you like spending time with me?"

_Nice segue, kiddo._ "Of course I do."

"Hard to tell, the way you've been acting tonight."

"And how's that?"

Ed's mouth twitched. "Stand-offish. Like you didn't want to take me out at all, but you had to."

Spike shrugged again, and took another bite of ice cream. "And like I said at Grill, I always take you out for your birthday. It's . . . tradition."

Ed rolled her eyes. _Yeah, and I can think of a lot of "traditions" that are no fun whatsoever. Like Chinese foot binding. Or female circumcision._ Out loud, she said, "Yeah, I suppose." They sat in silence for a while. Then Ed decided to bite the bullet. "Spike?"

"Hm?"

"Remember my fourteenth birthday?"

"Of course." Spike had finished his ice cream, and he lit another cigarette.

_He's arming himself_, Ed thought absently. Still, she had to continue. "Well, you told me that night . . . You said, on my eighteenth birthday, we could 'have a chat'." Spike didn't answer, only took a drag on his cigarette. "That if I still felt the same way about you as I did then, then we could discuss it. Well . . . the truth is, I don't feel the same way as I did back then."

Spike's hand froze halfway to his mouth. "Is that so?"

"Yes. It is." Ed took a deep breath, and turned to look at Spike. She could only see his profile. _Now or never, Ed_. "My feelings for you are even _stronger_. When I was fourteen, you amazed me with every move you made. You were everything a little girl thinks a man should be: strong, loyal, and caring. I could see all that in you, despite how you always carried yourself around as being aloof. But now, I see your faults. You have vices and a past and who knows how much baggage. But I still see the same man as I saw when I was fourteen. But now I see the whole big picture of Spike Spiegel. And I love him. I love _you_."

Spike looked at her. He looked away. He took a drag on his cigarette. "And you're eighteen."

Ed's eyebrows knitted together. She felt like her stomach was trying to come up into her neck. "Well, yes."

"No matter what, Ed, I will always be fourteen years older than you."

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything has to do with everything. Look, Ed, it's just not going to happen. Forget about it. Give it up." And Spike leaned back on the bench, inhaling on his cigarette.

Ed forgot how to breathe. Her eyes grew wide. "That's it?"

"What else is there?"

Ed couldn't speak. She opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again. She turned away and looked at the boats again. Tears pricked her eyes, turning the fairy lights strung on the boats into multi-colored prisms. _I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry, s_he repeated to herself like a litany. Finally, she stood up. "Thanks. Thanks a _fucking_ lot, Spiegel." And she began to walk away.

Spike was as startled to see her take off as he was to hear her say _fucking_. Ed had never said that, not in his recollection, ever. He rose, and began walking after her. "Ed . . ."

"Leave me alone." Ed continued stalking away.

"Listen to me."

"No." Ed kept going.

"Ed, you can't walk the whole way back."

Ed stopped walking. Her hands were clenched into fists, and then she turned to face him. "Yes, I can. I can do whatever I want. I'm eighteen after all, and I'm not stupid, and you made your point perfectly clear. End of discussion," she spat. Her eyes finally brimmed over and the first tears fell. "You got rid of Faye, and now you got rid of me. Happy, now?"

Spike bristled, and he pointed directly at her nose. "What went on between me and Faye was none of your business, missy."

Ed smacked his hand away. "Get your finger away from my face! Get away from me! Go to _hell_, Spiegel!" And she turned back and starting walking again, dashing her tears off her face.

Spike stood still, watching her for a minute. _Way to go_, he thought. He could almost hear his _mother's voice: Shame on you, Joseph Decland Spiegel, for hurting that girl like that! Now you go and make things right!_

Ed was still walking with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She knew that if she kept following the waterfront, she would eventually return to the Bebop. She did have a small amount of money on her, enough for a taxi, but she felt too angry to just sit in a car. She was so angry she was shaking. Angry at Spike for saying what he did. Angry at herself for saying what she did. And she was even angry at those stupid magazines of Faye's, the ones that had article after article saying how she should speak her heart. _Yeah, well, look what it got me_. Then she heard the engine of something come up behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Spike on the motorcycle.

"Ed, get on. I'll take you home."

"I'd rather walk."

"Ed, don't be stupid. It's dangerous out here. You could get hurt."

"You're the one that taught me how to fight. Don't you have faith in your abilities?"

"Just get on the damn bike, Ed!"

Ed stopped walking. She turned to face Spike. Her mouth worked for a minute. Then she said, "What are you so _afraid_ of?"

Spike couldn't answer. He knew, though, even if she didn't, that her question had nothing to do about her walking home alone in the dark. He opened his mouth to speak, but a third voice interjected.

"Is everything all right here?"

Both Ed and Spike looked up to see a uniformed police officer in a patrol car, looking right at them. Ed bit her lip. Spike looked at her for a moment, and then said, "There is no problem, officer. But I would be obliged if you would see the young lady home safely." Ed looked back at Spike, and their gazes held for a moment. Then he dropped the bike into gear, did a U-turn, and drove off into the night.

In the back of the police car, Ed finally gave into sobbing. She was so mortified. The whole evening had gone so completely wrong, like some sort of old Greek tragedy that might have driven Ed to gouge out her own eyes if she hadn't had some sense that this was precisely how she thought, in her true heart of hearts, that this evening was going to end up. She knew. She _knew_ it was going to end like this. And all the time she kept telling herself that somehow Spike would be moved by her words, that he would open his eyes and see the glory that was her love for him.

_I am so stupid_, she thought. _I am such a fool._

She was suddenly startled by the cop tapping on the screen divider between the front and the back seat. "Are you going to be okay, miss?"

Ed chuckled wanly and wiped her eyes. "Maybe."

"That guy didn't . . . he didn't _hurt_ you, did he?"

"Hurt me?"

"Yeah, like he didn't . . . you know . . ."

Ed's eyes went wide. "Oh no. _No._ He didn't do _anything_ like that! He just . . . he . . ."

"Gave you the brush off? After you poured your heart out to him?"

Ed sniffed. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Had a few daughters who were your age once. And I know you're in no mood to hear this, but you don't need a guy who's gonna treat you like that."

"I know." Ed began sobbing anew.

The cop sighed and kept driving. "Yeah, missy, I know you know. But that don't help none right now, though, do it?" Ed shook her head and cried harder. "Yeah, it don't help none. Not right now, anyway. But someday, it will."

Ed lifted her head. "Swear?"

"Sure do. Pinky swear, even."

"_He _pinky swore to me once too."

"Son of a bee. No one breaks a pinky swear. Want me to turn around so's we can find him and shoot him, then?" Ed laughed weakly and then shook her head _no_. "Well, at least I got you laughing a little." After a few minutes more of driving, broken only with Ed giving directions, they pulled up to the slip where the Bebopwas docked. The cop handed her out of the back of the car, and handed her a soft, clean handkerchief to mop up her face. After blowing her nose, Ed had a moment where she wasn't sure if she was to give back the handkerchief, and finally the cop laughed and said, "Hey, I changed diapers for six kids. A little snot don't bother me none," which made Ed laugh again. "Let me just walk you back onboard, miss, I want to make _sure_ you get home okay. Is your dad home?"

"Yeah." It was easier to make this reply rather than explain the permutations of her living arrangements. The cop escorted her into the hangar and through the bay doors. Jet came out of his bonsai room, calling, "Are you two back already? That was a short . . ." and then he came up upon seeing Ed in the escort of a police officer. "Ed?"

The cop snorted. "Naw. I'm Murphy."

Jet looked confused, and then shook his head. "No, I mean, her name is Ed. Anyway . . . what . . . what's going on?"

The cop squeezed Ed's shoulder. "Well, sir, I'll just let the young lady explain that, I just wanted to make sure she got home okay." Then the cop squeezed her shoulder again and said, "Everything's gonna be okay, just like I said. Okay?" Ed nodded. "Okay. Goodnight, sir." The cop tipped his hat to the both of them and left. Ed stood where she was, head down, afraid to meet Jet's eyes. But her shoulders kept shaking and her chest kept hitching from crying so hard.

Jet stepped a little closer. Now, from this angle, he could see her red and puffy face, even as she kept her chin to her chest. "Ed?" Ed didn't answer, but she made a chuffing noise and Jet watched the waterworks start again. "Ed, did Spike make you cry?"

Ed lifted her chin and met Jet's eyes. Then she wailed and burst into tears, launching herself into Jet's arms. Jet was completely and utterly bewildered, but he assumed from her reaction that he had asked the correct question, or at least, the question that fit this kind of answer. _Damn that Spike, _he thought. He'd never, never seen Ed like this, even when she was younger and having some kind of tantrum, or even during her mid-adolescent years when she was still figuring out how to do this growing-up thing. So Jet wrapped his arms around her and put his cheek on her hair and rocked her back and forth, letting the young woman ride out the storm, soaking his shirt front in the process. He even got a little tear in his eye himself, the old softy that he was, and he listened to Ed's heart break. After a while, the wild tears began to subside, and Jet whiled away the time thinking of very exotic and painful ways to exact revenge on Spike for treating his girl this way. Some of them were quite good, in fact. Finally, Ed pulled away from Jet, wiping her nose. Jet lifted her chin with a finger. _Ye gods, what a mess. _"Why don't you take a shower? You stink like a chain smoker and you look like about ten miles bad road." Ed laughed weakly. "We can talk later. Tomorrow will be a little brighter with a good night's sleep under your ear. Okay?"

"Okay." And Jet drew Ed back into his arms for a while. _Poor kid. You had to grow up today in a way that's no fun at all. I'm so sorry. _Jet gave Ed a kiss on the head, and she sniffled, wandering off to take the suggested shower. Jet rubbed his bald head, the way he always did when he felt out of his element. Then, off in the other room, he heard his comm. chirp. He found the comm. under a small pile of tree clippings. It was Faye. "Hello, Faye," grunted Jet.

"Well, aren't you the cheerful one." Jet snorted. "Is Ed there? I wanted to wish her Happy Birthday. Or is she still out with Spike?"

"No, she's home, but . . . she's in the shower. I don't think she wants to talk right now."

Faye's face, a little blurry on the small comm. screen, was frowning. "Did something happen?"

Jet snorted again, reaching for the little glass of scotch he had poured earlier. "I suppose so. A policeman brought her home."

"You're _kidding _me."

Jet took a swallow of scotch and let it burn its way down his gullet. "Wish I were. Ed looked like her face was turned inside out; it was so red from all the crying."

"What did that lunkhead do to her?" Now Faye's face was crossing over into that dangerously angry look.

Jet sighed and sat back down on his little bench. "I'm not sure. What do _you_ think?"

"I'm thinking Spike was acting just like Spike when Ed was hoping he'd act like a human being." Jet laughed. "This isn't funny, Jet. He can't treat her like that. He's such a rat. No, he's worse. He's an . . . um . . . an amoeba. An amoeba in the belly of a fly on a piece of crap hanging from a rat's arse." Jet laughed even harder. "I said, this isn't funny, Jet."

Jet chuckled a bit longer, and then sobered. "No, no, you're right . . . it's not funny. And the thing is . . . you know . . . having both of them on the ship."

Faye's eyebrows knitted together. "Yeah. So what are you going to do?"

Jet took a deep breath. "I don't know."

********************************************

Spike's first intention was to go to a bar. He decided to veto that idea. He had a notion that when he did return to the Bebop, he would have to settle a hash with the old man, and Jet was getting pissy lately about Spike's drinking habits.

_No, it wouldn't do to go boozing it up when you were supposed to have escorted his eighteen-year-old daughter home, Spiegel, _he thought ruefully. He returned instead to Grill, and took up a stool at the worn-out counter, and drank endless cups of terrible coffee. Rufus had caught his eye, and Spike had given him a look that he hoped translated as _please, just don't,_ and Rufus had left him alone.

So Spike sat there, forehead in hand, idly stirring the dregs of the liquid supposedly known as coffee in the cup before him. He could hear idle chatter around him, but mostly his ears were ringing with that goddamned question that Ed had hurled at him.

_What are you so afraid of?_

_What, indeed?_ He had never been afraid to fight someone, to be shot at. He hadn't been afraid to live dangerously or die quickly. So why did he have so much trouble dealing with a red-haired maniac hacker, the same way he had so much trouble dealing with a raven-haired harpy bounty hunter?

Spike sighed, and shifted his head so that his chin was now in the heel of his hand. His other hand continued to stir the contents of his cup. At this time of night, the counter only had a few residents. He studied them each briefly before realizing that they were all basically the same person: an old man with nowhere to go, and no one to go with.

He wondered if he'd be joining them at some point.

His hand stopped stirring.

After a moment, Spike rose, dropped a couple of bills on the counter, and left the restaurant.

Rufus shouted out to him, but he didn't answer.

The Bebop was quiet when Spike returned to the ship. As he walked in from the hangar, he could see just the head and shoulders of Jet above the back of the old sofa. It appeared that he was doing something with something else on the coffee table. Spike assumed that Jet was trimming one of his precious bonsai: so he was mad. Spike expected this, and readied himself for a storm. But what Spike saw as he approached Jet rattled him completely.

Jet wasn't trimming a bonsai.

Jet was cleaning a gun.

Spike knew that Jet had heard him approach: Jet's eyes darted his direction. He continued to clean the gun as Spike moved over to the side chair and sat down. The only sound was Jet putting down various pieces of metal as he cleaned and oiled each of them.

"Spike."

Spike lost his voice for a moment, but thankfully it returned without squeaking. "Jet."

"Will you please explain why Ed came home in the escort of a police officer?"

"What did she tell you?"

Jet took a look down the chamber he had just been brushing out. "I'm asking the questions here."

Spike took a breath. "She was insisting on walking back to the ship. I asked the officer to see her home so she wouldn't have to walk through a bad part of town."

"I see." Jet put down the chamber piece and picked up another. "That still doesn't explain _why_, though."

"We had . . . an argument."

"An argument." Jet polished the piece in his hand. "That isn't exactly how it looked to me."

"Well." Spike looked briefly at his lap, then back at Jet. Jet had yet to look fully at him. "It's . . . complicated."

"Actually, the way I see it, it's not." Jet continued to polish the gun part. There was an interminable silence. It took every fiber of Spike's being not to fidget. "At any rate, I've decided to take Ed down to the seaside for a couple of days before she goes to Venus. And she'll be there for a week. That should be plenty of time to figure it out."

Spike twitched his eyebrow. "To figure what out?"

Jet stopped polishing. He turned his gaze and looked directly into Spike's eyes. "To figure out whether you're staying on this ship."


	4. That Was Supposed to be Mine

When Ed awoke the next morning, she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach repeatedly all night long, while someone else was trying to beat her about the head and shoulders with a large rubber mallet. She thought to herself: _if this is what being hung-over is like, then the drunks of the world can keep it._ Despite an excessively long and hot shower when she got back to the ship last night, she felt no better, and she had cried herself to sleep. To show for it, Ed had a soaking wet pillow and her left-side sinus was all clogged up. In other words, Ed felt _annihilated._ She felt like a wet shoe in the middle of the road. She felt like Papa looked after a decidedly precarious bounty run.

And as a 13-year-old Ed would have put it, like _poopy ka-ka._

For a while, Ed wished that she could be thirteen again, to be free of social restraints and apparently free to say or do what she wanted, without fear or repercussions; but instead here she was, eighteen, and mortified that she had shot off her mouth last night. Unfortunately, there was no ctrl-z keystroke for _life_.

_How freakin' pithy_, Ed thought as she swung her legs out of her rack and dropped to the floor with an unladylike _thud_. She never heard if Spike came back last night. Perhaps he did and she didn't hear him. Perhaps he didn't return. Perhaps he decided to run off with the motorcycle and never come back. Perhaps Papa very quietly disemboweled him and dropped his body into the harbour. Yes, she liked that last idea and Ed would have tickled to know that that was in fact, one of the options the Jet had thought about last night while waiting for Spike to return.

With a sigh, Ed came to the conclusion that as much as she'd like to, she couldn't remain in her room indefinitely, mostly because she had already emptied her snack stash and she was hungry. Ed found a pair of flannel pants and another tee shirt and pulled these on, eschewing socks and comb. Ed felt little need for socks and combed hair this morning.

Ed morosely went down the corridor towards the faint breakfast smells, where she found Papa-Jet sitting in his normal space, squinting through a pair of cheap drugstore glasses at the paper. He caught Ed's eye and said, "Okay, I'm trying the glasses and they suck. How are you doing this morning?" Ed shrugged, and moved toward the toaster, where two pieces of bread had just popped up. She handed one to Jet and stuck the other in her mouth. Jet removed the cheap reading glasses and said, "Listen, I was thinking. There are a couple of days before you leave for Venus, and there's nothing going on around here. I know where we can charter a boat for cheap and maybe we could do some deep-sea fishing? How does that sound?" Ed gave Jet the first true smile she had been capable of in the past 12 hours or so. Jet smiled back, not only because he was happy to see Ed's spirits lift, but also because she looked very silly with the toast sticking out between her teeth. "Well, that's settled, then. We'll leave as soon as you pack your stuff. Go ahead and pack for Venus too; I'll take you directly to the transport station when we get back."

Ed gave a small happy squeal, and then she removed the toast from her mouth, leapt forward to kiss Jet, re-inserted the toast, and did a cartwheel out of the kitchen. Jet watched her go with a chuckle.

Ed knew precisely what Papa-Jet was up to, but she was grateful. Unfortunately, her mad dash out of the kitchen meant she didn't look where she was going, and she ran pell-mell into Spike. Ed nearly fell to the floor before she was quickly caught by Spike's hand on her arm. She looked up sharply into Spike's face. His eyes looked like he hadn't slept at all; they were sleep-puffy with dark circles. His unruly hair was flattened on one side. He was still in his rumpled suit, and he had that grumpy I-haven't-had-my-first-cigarette look about him.

And unfortunately, he was still as handsome as he ever was, at least to Ed.

Spike, by the same token, was taking this moment to study Ed. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and spoke of prolonged crying. Her face looked pinched, drawn, and sad -- and her cheeks had none of the high color they usually did. And she still held the piece of toast between her teeth.

_Oh, geez_, thought Spike. _Only Ed could look good with toast stuck in her mouth_. Out loud, he finally asked, "Are you all right?"

Ed stared for a moment. "Fine," she replied, the word muffled by the toast. Spike dropped his hand from her arm. Ed sidestepped him and continued down the hall. Spike watched her go for a moment, and then continued to the kitchen. Jet glanced up briefly, and then went back to squinting at the newspaper.

"Spike."

"Jet." Spike went to pour himself some coffee. "When were you two planning on leaving?"

Jet rattled the paper. "As soon as Ed is ready to go."

Spike leaned into the corner where the counter surfaces met. He stared for a moment at the surface of the coffee. The clock above the stove ticked off seconds. Then Spike said, "Is there anything on the ship that needs doing while you're gone?"

Jet turned a page. "I think you'll be free to do whatever it is you do around here for a couple of days."

Spike gazed at the back of Jet's head for a few moments. Then he replied, "Okay, then."

Jet drew a breath. "No. Not 'okay, then'." Jet snapped the paper flat and stood, getting up to his full height directly within drill-sergeant range of Spike's nose. "If it were up to me, you'd be off this ship already with your ass up between your shoulder blades, with a second asshole, and your trouser-snake sticking out of your mouth like a damned birthday candle. But it's not up to me. It's going to be up to Ed. And if she decides that she wants you off this ship in the aforementioned condition, it will be my greatest pleasure to do that for her. You should be thanking your lucky stars I'm not going to be here for the next few days. And if you're still here when I get back, you know I'm going to make your life miserable for you until Ed decides _yea _or _nay_ about you staying here." Spike had the sense to stay quiet and keep eye contact with Jet while he said this piece. And after saying it, Jet gave Spike one more look that spoke of possible death and dismemberment, and then he left the room.

It wasn't until Jet had been out of the room for a few moments that Spike realized that he had been holding his breath, which he released in a loud and relieved exhale. He hadn't been reprimanded (although _reprimanded_ wasn't anywhere _near_ a strong enough word) like that in a very long time, probably not since his childhood, after had had received the worst beating of his life at the hands of his father. Spike seemed to remember that he couldn't stop laughing after his mother, in a fit of exasperation, had called Spike a _son of a bitch._ So, once again, the reprimand was certainly deserved.

And while Spike would have probably preferred to just pack up his crap and finally leave this ship, he also knew that leaving before he received his deserved licks from Jet as well as Ed would make him the worst of cowards. Jet deserved his opportunity to give him _what-for_. But certainly not as much as Ed did.

****************************************************

That morning, Faye was absently staring off into the corner of the small coffee shop. She had several poker hands in front of her because she had been playing against herself for a few hours. She hadn't been able to sleep well after her conversation with Jet the night before. It was one thing for Spike to treat _her_ unfairly and with possible malice, but it was quite another for Spike to treat Ed that way. Faye honestly had thought that Spike was rather fond of the girl. On the other hand, Faye also suspected that Spike meant more to Ed than Ed meant to Spike. This was never a good thing, especially for the Eds of the universe.

A steaming cup of coffee was suddenly set down in front of Faye, breaking off her train of thought. She looked up in the ever-handsome face of Justin Winfield, and smiled. "Do you _ever_ sleep, Winfield?"

Winfield shrugged. "The casino never sleeps. I've learned to get by with only a few hours a night and quick naps during the day. You never know when something is going to happen." At this point, he frowned and began tapping at his temple. Then Winfield looked in another direction, and he looked for all the world like he was twirling a lock of his hair. Faye watched, both interested and confused. Finally, Winfield pulled a small filament wire from his hair, at the end of which was a tiny ear bud. "Damn things still aren't working right. There may be too much electronic interference with all the machines."

Faye shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that."

Winfield pulled a different earpiece out of his pocket and screwed it into his ear. "I really want these newer models to go online so that we can be more discreet looking. Problem is, these guys that I have working for me are all numb nuts."

Faye laughed. "Maybe Ed can give them some pointers when she gets here."

Winfield brightened. "That's right. She's coming to visit in a couple of days, right? For her birthday."

Faye sighed and looked across the casino. "Yeah, for her birthday."

Winfield's eyebrows knitted together. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I'm not sure. Apparently the poor kid had one lousy birthday. Usually, Spike takes her out for dinner or something, and from what I understand, he acted like . . . Ugh!" Faye grunted and rolled her eyes. "I don't want to talk about that lunkhead anymore. I'm definitely not happy with him right now."

"Well, perhaps we can make it up to Ed when she gets here."

Faye smiled at Winfield. "That would be nice." Suddenly Winfield frowned, and looked out across the casino. Then he stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. Faye, confused, began to speak, "What the . . . ?"

"Faye, get down under the table."

"What?" Winfield didn't answer, but he did actually push _hard _on Faye's shoulder, and her surprise at his strength knocked her out of her chair. Then she heard the unmistakable _boom_ of a high-powered pistol and crashing glass, the kind of noise that made her think that a crystal chandelier had just been shot down from the ceiling. Faye, for one brief moment, felt for her gun before remembering that her Glock had been confiscated upon her arrival and registration into the poker tournament. Presumably she would be getting it back. If not, she'd have to have some words with Winfield, who, at this moment, had leapt over the iron railing that separated the coffee shop from the rest of the casino. He disappeared into the screaming throng who was working to escape from the noise, the opposite direction as he. Faye waited. There was another gunshot and then some yelling, as well as a _yelp_ that Faye figured was someone getting hurt. Hopefully not by a bullet. Hopefully not Winfield because he'd been really nice to her so far.

Faye remained where she was for quite a while, hunkered down on her elbows and knees below the surface of the table, with her fingers in her ears, staring at the floor in front of her. Soon, a pair of feet came into view, male-sized feet wearing very expensive shoes. They could have been ostrich for all she knew. Then the feet stopped directly before her, and Faye could see the legs that the feet belonged to bent to accommodate a person bending down to her level. Then Faye looked up to see the bemused face of Winfield. He chuckled and said, "It's all over but the shouting, Faye. Are you _sure_ you're a bounty hunter?"

Faye took her fingers out of her ears, gave a lopsided smile and said, "I've been told I wasn't actually very good at it. I caused more trouble than I solved." Winfield laughed at that, and held out his hand, to help her up. As she struggled to her feet, Faye said, "What happened?"

Winfield shrugged. "It was a half-assed attempt to cause some confusion so that guys could grab some cash boxes off the trains. None of the cash was lost, but two guys got away before we could grab them. I have to go and check in with the camera surveillance so that we can get some cowboys after them. And_ no, _I don't mean _you._" He touched Faye's nose and grinned. "You need to stay here and play poker."

Faye's nose was almost burning from the little light touch he placed on it. Discomfited, she said, "Um . . . perhaps if you gather some intelligence on those guys, I can pass it on to a couple of cowboys I know . . . who are much better at the job than me."

Winfield thought for a moment. "Deal. Just let me get that for you." Winfield shifted his eyes to her ear. "Oh, it seems you forgot something."

Faye's hand automatically went to her ear. "What?"

"Not much. Just this." And in a single move, Winfield dropped a kiss directly on Faye, who jumped as his tongue made a delicate swipe across her lips. "See ya." Before Faye could respond, he was already gone and walking away from her, talking into an unseen microphone.

*************************************

Ed and Papa took the quick journey out by the light rail, and they soon found a beach bungalow and an old deep-sea trawler for hire. It seemed in no time at all, both Ed and Papa were resting comfortably in deck chairs, fishing line over the side, and their bare feet up on the railing.

"What do you think we'll catch, Papa?"

Jet squinted at the sky. "This time of day? Probably nothing."

"Not even the Old Man Surfing Sea Turtle?"

"You mean Old Pipeline?" Jet chuckled. He couldn't believe she remembered that story he had made up for her so long ago, when they first started fishing together. "I thought I told you, he turned into an old man-person and lived alone on an island."

"But he had to wear his shell for all eternity, because he would still always be a turtle."

"And the moral of the story was . . .?"

Ed sighed. "The More We Change, the More We Stay the Same."

"I thought it had more to do with not squishing someone else's sea cucumbers."

"No, that was the moral I came up with when you first told me that story," and Ed laughed. Jet laughed right along with her when Ed pitched her voice high and silly, chanting, "Apples! Pears! Sea Cu-u-u-u-u-u-u-ucumbers! Tomatoes are good to eat but horseshoe crabs are bad on feet!" When Jet finally stopped laughing, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

Ed closed her eyes, let the sun fall on her face, and smiled. Right here, right now, everything was okay.

Right here, right now, as far as Spike was concerned, everything was not okay. Jet and Ed had left some time ago, but it was a long while before Spike felt comfortable with taking up his normal spot on the couch with a fresh deck of smokes. His feet were on the table, his head rested on the sofa back, and the stick he held in his fingers was lit. He appeared to be the epitome of relaxation.

Inside, however, he couldn't have been in more unrest.

Hadn't he thought, less than twenty-four hours ago, that he'd be able to tell Ed to "let it go" and everything would just work itself out? Now, another woman hated his guts, and he was inches away from Jet either tossing him out on his ass or putting a bullet in his head. Or both.

He took a drag on the cigarette. A long time ago, he had said to Jet, "There are three things that I hate . . . kids... animals... and women with attitude. Why do we have all three neatly gathered here?" Spike began to ponder each one in turn.

_Women with attitude_. Well, Faye, of course. She'd sashayed right onto the ship and despite his best attempts, right into his heart. Which was simply not going to do? So he'd held her at arm's length, and made her hate him. Because it was easier that way, less messy. And to show for it, he had a scar on his throat where she had attempted to rip it out, with a surprising amount of success, and a dent in his bedroom wall where she'd punched it. _Less messy. Right_.

_Animals_. Ein. That damned dog. Ein had puked in his shoes on more than one occasion. Ein had also eaten the last woolongs out of his wallet, and was always given first dibs on leftovers. But Ein worked with Spike for months on end when he'd been released from the hospital after fighting Vicious. And Ein had talked to him when Spike was still physically unable to speak. And Ein had saved his life when Spike was lying on the floor suffering a stroke, causing a severe deficit to his own life. And then Ein had died, alone, decades after watching each of his four-legged friends be put to death in front of him. _And when I saw him lying there_ . . . Spike took a drag on his cigarette. He was not going to visit that memory tonight.

_Kids_. That should have classified Ed, who had spun into all of their lives with incoherent shrieks and babbling. And then, Ed had grown up from an awkward, silly brat into a lithesome, intelligent, and beautiful woman.

Only without an attitude.

But Spike had lumped her into the same category as Faye, and had been successful in keeping her at arm's length as well, before she could slink into his heart the way that Faye had. Yet she had, even without him realizing it, and that was the cruelest cut of all.

_You got rid of Faye, and now you got rid of me_, she'd said. _Happy, now_?

_I can't say that I am, Ed_, as Spike remained motionless on the sofa, the cigarette in his fingers burning down, unsmoked.

**************************************

Chapter title from _That Was Supposed to be Mine, _written and performed by Annie Moscow.

_Cowboy BeBop _is copyrighted by Sunrise, Inc.


	5. The Girl Can't Help It

_If she walks by, the men folks get engrossed,  
She can't help it, the girl can't help it  
If she winks an eye, the bread slice turn to toast,  
She can't help it, the girl can't help it - Little Richard_

Jet was walking back to the BeBop after three days of deep-sea fishing with his favorite fishing buddy, Ed. He had just dropped her off at the transport station to send her on her way to visit Faye on Venus. Over one shoulder he had a sea bag full of dirty laundry, and on the other shoulder, he was stevedoring a foam cooler filled with the bounty of the three days worth of labor, neatly filleted and packaged for freezing. Jet was contemplating the three days and how much perspective one could gain in three days of staring at a sparkling ocean, waiting for that tell-tale tug on the line. During those three days, even though Ed didn't say much, she had pretty much come to the conclusion that she had overreacted in more ways than one, but Jet countered (not in so many words) that he agreed but that Spike had, in fact, been fairly responsible for the emotional upheaval everyone had had to endure that past few days. Not that Jet and Ed had those exact words with each other. Their conversation on the matter had been this:

Ed: "Papa, I think I . . ." –_sigh _—"Ugh."

Jet: "Yeah, me too. I'm sorry, though."

Ed: "Yeah."

And that was the end of the matter for now. At least, with Ed. Spike might be a different matter, but Jet had also cooled his jets (no pun intended) out there on the open water, especially since he had a whole cooler of good fish to show for it. Jet wasn't sure if Spike would even still be on the ship since Jet threatened to rip him a new one; but then, Spike had never left the ship in the past, despite similar threats.

Jet's .comm beeped. Looping the seabag strap around his wrist, Jet wrestled the .comm out of his pocket to see Faye's face on the screen. "Yeah."

Faye smirked. "Hello yourself, sunshine."

"I just left Ed at the transport. She should be there on time."

"How is she doing?"

"Better."

"Good. Listen, I've got some info on a possible bounty for you . . . I'm sending it now." Jet frowned at the screen on his .comm, which showed a little file folder floating across it. Faye laughed. "You didn't even know that Ed set that up that little app for you, huh?"

"What kind of bounty is this?"

"Kids, raising havoc in the casino."

"On Venus? Why are you telling me this?"

Faye blushed slightly. "Well, the information I got said that the perps went back to Mars."

Jet smirked. "Information from _whom_?"

Faye rolled her eyes. "Never you mind. Take it or leave it. What happened with the lunkhead?"

"I haven't gotten back to the ship yet."

Faye snorted. "Give him a good one for me," and then she signed off. Jet grinned; while he and Ed seemed to have reached a kind of stalemate on the whole affair, Faye seemed fine with holding a grudge. Presently, Jet came up to the BeBop and saw an unusual sight: there was a row of shiny objects lined up in the sun on the deck. As he approached, Jet realized that the shiny objects were the load pans from the lower deck, which hadn't been cleaned in about thirty years. He looked across the deck to see Spike, shirtless, squatting over another filthy load pan as he scrubbed it. Spike's hands were grimy up to his elbow, and there were swipes of dirt over his face and chest.

Jet walked up behind him so his shadow was cast across the offending load pan. "Spike."

Spike rested back on his heels and rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist, leaving a mustache of dirt. "Jet."

"Load pans."

Spike shrugged. "Said they needed to be cleaned."

"How many more you got?"

"Last one."

Jet nodded toward the ship. "When you get done with that, clean up. There's fish for dinner." Spike grunted and went back to his scrubbing. Jet went inside – taking a peek at the load pan pit as he went, which was also spotlessly clean – and divvied up the fish for freezing and cooking, choosing a flounder fillet for dinner. A while later, Spike showed up and wordlessly took the proffered bowl of noodles and fish from Jet. Spike went back to the old couch, and ate in silence. Jet reflected that this was like old times: no women, no dog, just the two of them, eating in silence, talking only when necessary. Back then, Spike's general reason for silence was _nothing to say_; now, Jet was hard-pressed to find a reason other than _wariness_.

Jet's .comm beeped, breaking the silence, and the noise almost made Spike jump, which verified Jet's theory of _wariness_ indeed. Jet frowned at the screen and picked up the line. "Yeah? Where are you?" Jet listened. Spike thought he could hear Ed's voice. "When will you get there, then?" A pause. "Eh, cripes. Let Faye know, she's looking for you. Yeah. Bye." Jet flipped the .comm shut and went back to eating. "Ed's transport had trouble; they had to do a layover on Earth." Jet looked at Spike, and Spike's brow ticked a bit, as if a small insect had bitten him.

"Is she okay?"

Jet slurped up the rest of his noodles. "She's stuck for the night, but they put her up in a hotel. She's fine." Spike grunted with what sounded like approval, and went back to eating. Or rather, fussing with his food in his bowl. Jet grinned inwardly, and, putting a deep scowl on his face, leaned forward on his elbows, glaring at Spike. Spike twitched a bit, but continued to spin the noodles in his bowl with his chopsticks. Jet came upon a realization, with great delight, that Spike wasn't just _wary_, he was _nervous_, possibly even _frightened_. It almost made Jet bust out in laughter; Spike was frightened, but of what, really?

Jet could barely take it anymore, so he waited until Spike made eye contact. Then Jet tossed his bowl about a foot into the air, shouting, "BOO!" Spike's hands flew up in a protective manner over his face and his bowl overturned, spilling noodles and chunks of fish over his lap and the floor. Jet burst into peals of laughter while Spike attempted to compose himself. "_Cripes_, Jet . . ."

"Cripes, nothing, what the hell is the matter with you?"

"I'd like to know when you're going to beat the hell out of me, that's all."

Jet chuckled. "I've never seen you like this. It's funny."

Spike snorted. "You've never threatened to remove parts of me and shove them somewhere else, old man."

Jet leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "Eh, shit." He took a deep drag. "I'm not going to do anything to you. It's all going to blow over, I think. Eventually." Jet took another drag. The coal burned bright. "She's eighteen, you know?"

Spike leaned forward. "That's what I've been saying all along."

Jet gave a wan smile. "The girl can't help it." He stood up. Spike also stood up, brushing noodles out of his lap. "There's just one more thing, though." Spike looked at him expectantly, as Jet grabbed him forcibly by the belt, and punched him full force right in the crotch. Jet let go, and Spike dropped his knees with a gurgle. Jet began to walk towards the kitchen. "I said I wasn't going to do anything to you. That was from Faye." Behind him, Jet heard the unmistakable noise of Spike vomiting what little he had eaten. "And clean that up. You are dirtying up my galley."


	6. Off Jumps Jack

_"In through the front door,  
Run around the back,  
Hop through the window,  
Off jumps Jack."__ - knitting teaching poem_

After a long and fairly sleepless night, in which Spike lay on the ugly yellow sofa with a packet of frozen peas down his pants, he decided to go ahead and at least start looking for the punks who shot up the casino on Venus. Whoever Faye's contact was, he seemed fairly certain that the kids (and they certainly looked like kids, no older than Ed at the outset) that the kids had gone back to Mars. Jet had taken pity on Spike after seeing him the next morning, laid out on the sofa under an old blanket with his knees up, and Jet had fed Spike an enormous omelet filled with cheese, peppers, and onions, as well as a couple of pancakes that may or may not have contained Grand Marnier.

Spike had taken another look at the e-file that Faye had sent, and still thought that these kids they were looking for were too young. Crazy young, even. They didn't look old enough to even be in a casino, and on Venus, that age was 18. At any rate, Spike wanted to get out and do a little trolling through the streets and have a look-see for these midgets. For fun, Spike decided to wear some new sunglasses that Ed had devised with face recognition software. They worked rather well, and hell, they looked really cool, as opposed to the old goggle style that he had worn in the past, which Ed had written off as "tacky steampunk", whatever the hell _that_ meant.

And so Spike ambled down the street through the light pedestrian traffic wearing the excessively cool-looking sunglasses, keeping one eye on the sidewalk in front of him and the other on the tiny code that reflected on the backside on the sunglass lens. When the software on the glasses took a scan of a person approaching him, a tiny flicker went across the image of the person. So far, there was no recognition. Not that that surprised him any. Spike still felt certain that the info from this bloke on Venus was either completely erroneous or some sort of red herring. Faye wouldn't divulge anything about this guy, and that simply put Spike's hackles up.

After about 3 hours of wandering aimlessly, Spike felt like packing it in, mostly because he was annoyed that the sun was too bright, but also because his groin was getting really sore again. Spike turned his head to look in a store window, and the glasses fixed on a kid coming out of the store. Instead of a quick scan and then going blank, the glasses lit up like a Christmas tree. Spike tapped the temple of the glasses, and the lenses cleared, giving Spike a good look at this kid. _This can't be right_, thought Spike. _The kid doesn't even look like he's fifteen years old!_ Still, Spike said, "Hey, kid," and the kid turned to face Spike with a quizzical look. Just at that moment, someone bumped Spike from behind, pitching Spike forward. His jacket fell open, exposing his pistol strapped around his chest. The kid's eyes grew wide and he took off running.

_Nuts. _Spike took off after him. The kid was quick, but the pedestrian traffic was thicker through this area as lunchtime crowds took to the streets, slowing him down. From behind, Spike saw that the kid was probably even younger than he originally thought. The kid was gangly, not that tall, and frankly, he ran a bit like a child. Behind him, Spike could hear a woman's voice yelling at him to stop. The kid disappeared into a throng of people but Spike lurched through the crowd. He then saw the kid skid to a halt in front of a subway entrance, looking behind him. He made eye contact again with Spike, and Spike thought that this kid was probably closer to thirteen than fifteen, and he began to wonder about the validity of Ed's face recognition software, as well as the info that Faye's guy had provided. The kid took off down the stairs. Spike caught up to the top of the stairs and paused for just a moment to avoid a collision with someone coming up, and at the moment, he was tackled from behind by someone yelling.

The two tumbled down the stairs. During the melee as the two fell, Spike got a couple of new knocks to his groin, and in retaliation, Spike made a couple of grabs at his tackler, allowing him to discover that the tackler was a woman, possibly the woman who was yelling at him earlier. During these same nanoseconds, he made a grab for her leg and then was stunned as her leg came off into his hand.

Spike and his female assailant came to a stop on a landing just several steps down from the top. Spike's head slammed into the tile wall, and he lay there, dumbfounded, wondering why he was holding this woman's leg when the rest of her was a couple of feet away. Just then, the kid returned, yanking the leg out his hand and then beating Spike with it. The kid didn't have much strength, and it felt like Spike was getting hit with a padded cricket bat, but the kid continued whaling on him, shouting, "Leave my mother alone! Don't you hurt my mother!"

The woman, a red head with short spiky hair, struggled to an upright position and shouted, "Koichi! Stop that right now! You'll break my leg!" But the kid continued to smack Spike around the head and shoulders, and now Spike was struck with hilarity of the whole situation, and started laughing as he made a grab for the prosthetic leg. He managed to wrench it away from the kid – Koichi or whatever his name was – and now realized that the kid was obviously barely in his teens. Spike looked over at the woman, who now looked definitely familiar, and she was gazing at him with the same kind of recognition. Koichi was now helping the woman to her feet, and she was slipping her glasses back on. Then Spike remembered. _"Miranda Braun?"_

The woman smiled, and said, "I thought that was you, Spike Spiegel. It's been a few years. And the name is Miranda Yamadera now, but you wouldn't have known that."

By now Spike had gotten to his feet and was holding her leg like some kind of fragile grail. Koichi grabbed the leg back from him. Spike said, "I thought they saved your leg."

Miranda had taken the leg back and was checking the contacts. "They tried, but after so many surgeries we just thought it was better to just amputate. Prosthetics just keep getting better and better. Crap. I'm going to have to drop my pants just to get this back on."

Koichi snarled at Spike, "What are you waiting for? Turn around, you jerk! Don't stare at my mom."

Miranda sighed. "Stepmom. Whatever." But by then Spike had obediently turned his back. "Shouldn't you find. . . I don't know . . . a ladies' room or something? You're just going to drop your pants on a subway stairwell?" asked Spike.

"Eh, let them look. Steps are hell with only one leg," replied Miranda as she struggled to reattach the leg while balancing on one foot and leaning against her stepson. With a grunt, she got the contacts lined up and her pants back in place. "You can turn around now." Spike turned back to see Miranda with both legs under her and a scowl on her face. "Now, then," she said as she reached out and gave Spike a mighty smack to the back of the head. "What in the _hell_ were you doing chasing my stepson?" The kid snorted. Spike reached out his hands and opened his mouth to explain, but Miranda interrupted. "No, don't tell me right now. I can tell this is going to be an interesting explanation. You can buy us lunch and then tell me all about it." Spike looked at her a moment, and then shut his mouth, jammed his hands into his pockets, and nodded sheepishly.

Spike originally suggested Grill, but Miranda said no, she wanted to go to a non-smoking place. Spike countered that he was buying lunch, so he should get to choose the place, but Miranda re-countered that Spike was the one who caused both her and Koichi _pain and suffering_, so the choice was hers, and she punctuated this statement with another smack to the back of Spike's head, making Koichi laugh. Spike muttered something about _pain and suffering my ass_ under his breath, and Koichi said something acidic and vulgar, prompting Miranda to give him a smack on the back of the head as well, albeit a _much_ lighter smack, which she delivered with a grin and a roll of her eyes in Spike's direction.

Where they ended up was a bar and grill called The Devil's Advocate, resplendent with brass, dark oak wood, pithy quotes on the wall, and shelves and shelves of old books. Miranda said that the place had a 500-woolong burger and fries special, and that sounded mighty good to Spike. While they waited for their food, Koichi went to explore the shelves of books; finding one, he flopped into an oversized club chair next to a fake fireplace. Miranda grinned. "The kid loves this place. Now, tell me, um . . . What the hell?"

Spike shrugged. "We got this information that Koichi, or someone who looks just like him, was involved with a casino shoot-out on Venus a few days ago." He showed her the file on his comm. for good measure. "And the face recognition software on these glasses had a positive match."

Miranda frowned at the screen. "Maybe, if someone did some sort of age enhancement. But Koichi is only thirteen . . ." This prompted a shout of _I'm fourteen!_ from Koichi. "Not until next week!" Miranda shouted back. "But regardless, he hasn't been to Venus recently. None of us have. Too busy."

Spike gave a lopsided grin. "Still sniffing ferns and hugging trees?"

Miranda grinned back. "Well, sort of. I took over Papa's company and running it is full time. I had to give up some of my lofty ideals to keep everyone employed, _but . . . _some of the work I was doing for alternative fuel sources is getting added to our processes. We get more profitable, we add more green research and applications. We employ more people. So it's good all the way around."

"Who did you marry anyway?"

Miranda blushed. "Well, remember my, um . . . lawyer? Well, after the shootout I was in the hospital so much . . . and he was single, and there so much of the time . . . and he was, well, so _helpful . . ._" Spike laughed. "And frankly, I loved his kid anyway, so, there you go. And you? Still doing this bounty hunting thing so many years later? I figured you would have grown up by now."

The food arrived, and Spike took a huge bite from his burger. Shrugging, he said, "It's a living."

Miranda pulled her tomato slice off her burger and popped it in her mouth. "More to life than just getting by, you know." Spike shrugged again. "My heavens. You need to find some _joy_, Spike."

Just then, Kiochi ambled up to grab his food, and rolled his eyes. "Mom, lay off your _joy_ crap, wouldja?"

"It's _not_ crap, and anyway, it's not _my _crap, it's your father's crap." Miranda smiled at Spike. "It was George's – my husband – his thing when I was in the hospital, surgery after surgery. I kept getting more despondent, you know?" Spike nodded. He knew enough about that feeling too. "Well, I just kept languishing and feeling sorry for myself. So George kept after me to do _something_, _anything_ after I finally lost my leg. I figured I couldn't do anything special at all. I had the prosthetic – this one, in fact – and I went to work, went through the motions, like I wasn't even a person anymore. And that was _all _I did. But then, I went to get my prosthetic tweaked, and guess what I saw?" Before Spike even opened his mouth, Miranda continued. "I saw an athlete, a _marathon _runner, for heaven's sake, getting a prosthetic leg. And that leg was more like curvy bars of metal, and damned if I didn't think it was the _sexiest_ prosthetic I ever saw. So I got fitted for one. And then I figured, well, I just outlaid a _crapload_ of money for this thing; I'd better put it to good use. So I started running.´ Miranda laughed. "Running. Me! I used to think running for the sake of running was the most _useless _activity even created! And you should have seen me the first time I ran on that leg. I went in freaking circles!" Spike laughed, imagining. Miranda took a long drag on her soda. "So, you never know. But it brings me joy. Happiness. Whatever you want to call it. But it's something that's _mine_, which has nothing to do with work or my lofty ideals or even my husband and kid."

Spike polished off his burger. "So when's your next marathon?"

Miranda snorted. "Just because you get a crazy sexy prosthetic doesn't mean you magically turn into a runner. I can only do a 5K right now without passing out. But you get what I mean, right?"

Spike nodded. "Yeah. Joy. Think I'll jump right on that train."

Miranda tossed down her napkin. "Killjoy. Literally. Lighten up, Spiegel. Life's too short."

Shortly after, Spike had paid the bill, and Miranda and Spike parted ways. Spike began his slow mosey back toward the ship. He lit a cigarette, musing on what Miranda has said. _Joy. Right. Fern-sniffer to the core, that one_. If it weren't for the kid and Miranda's bright eyes, he figured she was doing some extra-curricular inhaling of said fern-type substances, to have gone on so about such psychobabble. He scratched the back of his head and continued walking. Right now he wasn't exactly feeling any joy. In fact, the only thing he was feeling was the sensation that he had blown his toe right through the end of his sock. He wiggled his foot around inside his bulky shoe and realized that was the case. He sighed, exhaling a large puff of smoke. This was his last pair of good socks, the last pair of hand-knitted socks from his old arsenal of hand-knitted socks made for him by his mother so many years ago. Helen Decland Spiegel was one voracious knitter, and she would knit socks like there was no tomorrow. Her husband, Francis, was the main recipient of such activity, but she had made plenty of pairs for Spike as well. And the fact was, once you had been spoiled by hand-knitted socks that fit perfectly to your foot, wearing a store-bought one was the metatarsal equivalent of eating potted meat when raised on grain-fed beef.

Spike continued walking, head down, cigarette dangling from his lip, feeling the inside of his grotty shoe with every step. His last pair of good socks. Damn. And while Helen had the ultimate patience and good grace to teach her son to knit, she'd never taught him how to darn a holey sock. She didn't have any patience for it herself; in fact, her style of "darning" a sock was to hold it over a trash can, shout "Darn!" and drop it in. He supposed he could try to do it himself. He might even ask Jet if he had any idea how. Jet was full of odd useful information like that. Thinking about where to go to find yarn, he happened by a store window that happened to be full of the stuff. _A yarn store?_ Spike paused and looked in the window. He didn't know there was a yarn store in this area. But a yarn store in was, with shelves and shelves of colorful skeins, racks of needles, and a display of spinning wheels. Spike looked up at the store sign, with read: _Yank Your Yarn_, and underneath that, _A Shop for Pet-A-Fibers._ Spike thought that was the most bizarre and risqué name for a yarn store ever considered, and then he noticed a number of people sitting at a large table inside the store, knitting, crocheting, and he guessed spinning. Mostly women, yes, but women of all ages – even a couple sporting multiple piercings and tattoos – and even a couple of men. One had a crochet hook and was making some sort of multi-colored vest. Another man was spinning, working the pedals with bare feet. Suddenly, Spike realized that the patrons inside had noticed him and were waving and laughing. He felt his face get hot, and, putting out his cigarette, he went through the open door anyway.

Inside, there was the smell of fresh coffee and damp wool. He heard a few people greet him. There were a number of hanks of yarn drip drying on a rack near the entrance, looking like they had just been dyed. The people at the table were laughing loudly. Spike made his way to the counter where an older fellow with long white hair stared at a computer. "Help you?"

Spike shoved his hands into his pockets. "I just blew out my last pair of knitted socks, and I was hoping I could get someone to darn them for me."

The old guy nodded. "Well, we'll take a look." He leaned back on his stool and pushed open a swinging door behind him. "Hey Nadine! Come take a look at this guy's socks!" Turning back to Spike, he said, "Welcome to the shop. I'm Frank. You wearing the socks? Well, pop them off, then." Spike paused, then shrugged, and pulled off his shoe and the offending sock. A woman came out of the back office. Smiling, she held out her hand for the sock. Spike handed it to her, and she grinned and said, "Wow! You've been wearing this all day, huh?" as she waved the sock around to air it out. Then she took a closer look at it and said, "Nice construction, but you've practically worn this to the woof. I mean, you'd be darning air to fix this sock. Did you make this?"

Spike shook his head. "No. My mother was the knitter." Then, for no reason he could think of, he said, "She did teach me how, but it's been a long time."

Nadine shrugged. "Well, I think re-learning to knit's like falling off a bicycle. Did you ever knit socks yourself?"

"No. Never got the hang of all those double-point needles."

"Well, there's a different technique using two circular needles, or even one long one, but I prefer the two circs myself. Let me show you." And suddenly, Spike found himself seated at the long table with everyone else, and Nadine was showing him the finer points of knitting socks on circular needles. She even made him knit a couple of rows. The first row was sheer torture. Spike couldn't remember even which needle to hold in what hand and where the yarn was supposed to go. Nadine gently moved his hands into the proper position and quietly gave him directions as he struggled. After a few minutes, Spike realized that he was actually leaning back in the chair, relaxed, as he threw the yarn around the needle. "You're a thrower," Nadine mused, and then another woman said, "Yep, a thrower, a pusher, and a poker." The man who was crocheting said that made Spike sound like a drug pusher. The second woman laughed and tossed back, "At least I'm not a hooker!" The whole table cackled with laughter, and Spike chuckled himself, and he immediately dropped a stitch. Spike cursed, and one of the tattooed women said that Spike certainly sounded like a knitter now.

He gave the knitting back to Nadine, and sat at the table for a while, listening to the others talk as they worked. Each person was working on amazing projects, thought Spike. There were scarves and hats and socks, of course, but then there were large lacy shawls, sweaters with intricate color patterns, and one woman at the end of the table was making parts to what she said was going to be a giant squid. Then Spike got up and explored the store. Spike had never known there were so many varieties of yarn. All kinds of thicknesses; some were as light as gossamer and others as chunky and thick around as his little finger. There was lots of wool, obviously, but other yarns were made from alpaca, silk, and even soy. _Soy? Can you eat it? _His eye fell upon what he assumed was sock yarn, and a look at the label confirmed it. It was nice looking yarn; it was a medium grey with little color flecks of blue and black. It reminded him of a pair of socks his mother had made years before. Nadine came over, and said, "That's a very good sock yarn. If you like . . ." she went on to tell Spike about how she would get him started on a pair of socks for a small fee, if he bought the supplies there. Before he could frame a refusal, Spike remembered Miranda's emphasis on joy. His mother had found joy in knitting socks for "her men", as she called them, and her men had certainly found joy in wearing the items knitted by her hands.

Two minutes later, he was standing at the counter, handing woolongs over to Frank for needles, yarn, and other necessary supplies. Frank even set Spike up with a small carry bag for everything. Frank then beckoned Spike to lean in closer. Frank said in a low voice, "Don't let the women see the gun. Make sure your safety is always on before you set foot in here. Okay, cowboy?" Then Frank leaned back and winked. Spike grimaced; he was found out as a cowboy unexpectedly twice today. Apparently, he was getting sloppy.

Five minutes after that, Spike was at the table, needles in hand, being walked through something called a "magic cast-on" that would allow him to work on 2 socks at the same time, from the toe up. Because, according to Nadine, he looked like "a sufferer of second-sock-syndrome". Spike stared in concentration on the tiny pointy needles and the skinny yarn before him as he worked. He poked his fingers, he twisted (and even broke) his yarn a couple of times, he dropped stitches, but Nadine had infinite patience with his clumsiness. Spike kept at it until he suddenly heard Frank call out, "Last call!" Looking up, Spike realized that he had been laboring over his socks for about four hours. He had gotten past the cast-on, finished all the increases (they were a little lopsided, but he figured his feet wouldn't care), and now had essentially a couple of toe caps that nearly covered his big toe. _Look at me, Ma,_ thought Spike with a small smile. _Look at what I did_. He felt oddly proud of himself. And maybe, possibly, although he really wouldn't admit it, perhaps, just a little bit joyful.


End file.
